


Courier

by kessarin



Category: The Goblin Emperor - Katherine Addison
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Fantastic Racism, Gen, Running Away, Sexual Assault, Sexual Harassment
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-19
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2020-07-08 17:06:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 37,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19873078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kessarin/pseuds/kessarin
Summary: And in the morning, all would be the same as it ever was: Maia would knot his hair low and move about the house with eyes cast downwards, cringing and shuddering under his guardian’s bootheel for the rest of his mortal days. And the thought came to him, as cool and clear as a message dropped from the stars by holy Cstheio herself:If I stay here, I will never be a man.And with that new thought in mind, Maia bowed silently to his cousin, left the study without a backwards glance, and went to his room to pack.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Other tags to be added later.

Viewed from the floor, the room seemed wider and more encompassing--the old furniture statelier, the fire more brilliant. Maia had often seen it from this angle before. He blinked reflexive tears from his eyes and pushed himself up, wincing as the movement made his ringing head throb. Setheris was talking--had probably been holding forth since the moment he’d knocked Maia down.

“Thy boldness suggests thou art in need of instruction.” Setheris clasped his hands together, flexing his fingers as if limbering them for another blow. “It is not thou who directest the running of this house, not thou who payest the servants. There is no use for thee here, Maia--thou art a burden, an inconvenience. It is lucky enough for thee that thy father cares not what thou dost here--not a useful thought has come out of thy head in all the time I’ve known thee. And now thou comest demanding favors?” His pale eyes narrowed, and he stared down at Maia as he might at a trace of filth on the bottom of his shoe. “Get off the floor, hobgoblin, before I kick thee and give thee better reason to stay there.”

Maia looked up at his cousin for a long moment. Though the disgust in Setheris’ voice was real, the words had an almost rote quality: though the particulars of this dance were specific to the occasion, the general lines of it had been laid out long before, ground into the carpet of this office in arguments that seemed to repeat themselves in a cycle as regular as the winter rains. Already Maia felt his shoulders slumping into their old posture, deflated by the loss of all the confidence that had buoyed him in here just a few minutes before. He found his gaze turning towards the floor, and forced himself to look up, maintaining eye contact with Setheris as he got his feet under him and staggered upright. “I am not looking for favors, cousin,” he said, keeping his tone as even as possible (he flattered himself it was at least in the right register). “I am asking for the rights due to me as an adult. I am a man, now, as thou art--”

He flinched back, startled, as Setheris burst into raucous laughter. Without warning, Setheris struck him again. It was a glancing blow this time--an insult more than a punishment--but it was enough to have Maia staggering backward. He caught himself against the firescreen--wincing as his fingers tangled briefly with the hot metal, pushing himself away again as quickly as possible. His hair--only loosely fashioned in approximation of a grown man’s style--fell loose, and the long tail of it brushed against his back. Embarrassed and disconcerted, Maia straightened his stance and looked up.

Setheris had stopped laughing. He was staring at the screen as if it had personally offended him, firelight glinting against the bloodshot sclera of his eyes. “Like me,” he said softly. “Thou, a half-bred halfwit goblin, to compare thyself to one whose blood has run pure through the last thousand years or more? Thou shouldst have been drowned at birth. Shouldst have been aborted, perhaps--they say thy mother’s mothers had ways of doing it, when they found themselves pregnant by the wrong man’s seed. Perhaps thy mother would not have died,  _ whelp _ , had she not had thee to tend to. Better she had been sent back to her people, and the whole line of you flushed out of the Ethuveraz forever.” His eyes lingered on Maia in a last contemptuous stare. “A man. Thou art a buffoon, a trumped-up child pretending at manhood. The kitchen maid hath more manhood in her than thee. Now go, goblin child--get out of my sight, and don’t trouble me again until thou hast something more useful to say.”

Rage trembled through all of Maia’s limbs. It took all his will to keep from attacking his cousin: such an attack, he knew by now, could end only in humiliation and defeat. He willed himself to grow--willed his sixteen years to catch up to him and send him a growth spurt, such as Aäno had received. Perhaps that would be enough, for a moment, to let him break through his cousin’s defenses, send Setheris toppling to the floor or out the window--or into the fireplace, perhaps, where he could brain himself on the same firescreen that had branded Maia two years ago. To speak so of Chenelo--Maia began to tremble, mouth dropping open as he fumbled for words that would compass the least part of his rage.

And then he looked up, and saw Setheris smirking.

Attack his cousin--sure, perhaps even kill him, if he went about it the right way and planned carefully. It might not even be difficult--Setheris drank himself into a stupor at least once every other week. And then what? Be apprehended by the terrified servants, and dragged across the Elflands in chains--make his first appearance in the Untheileise Court at his own trial for murder? Or run--strike out across the marshes and hope not to drown in a bog--beg for his bread until he was inevitably caught and dragged back to court anyway…

Setheris was nearly grinning, now, no doubt tracing Maia’s thoughts. He may, in fact, have made these very calculations:  _ this much may I do, and this much, and this much more, because this powerless son of a hateful emperor hath not a friend in the world to turn to.  _ And in the morning, all would be the same as it ever was: Maia would knot his hair low and move about the house with eyes cast downwards, cringing and shuddering under his guardian’s bootheel for the rest of his mortal days. And the thought came to him, as cool and clear as a message dropped from the stars by holy Cstheio herself:  _ If I stay here, I will never be a man. _

He considered this from all angles, and knew it was true. Life would never change for him here. He would always be  _ boy, child, idiot _ \--would never marry, probably never see the world outside Edonomee. If he wanted a different future, he would have to make it for himself.

And with that new thought in mind, Maia bowed silently to his cousin, left the study without a backwards glance, and went to his room to pack.  
  


He felt a bit bad for the servants, thinking of it. Setheris was sure to blame them when Maia turned up missing, though none of them could possibly know what Maia had in mind.

He waited until Kevo and Aäno had gone home, until Haru was long asleep and even Pelchara had dozed off with a blueback novel. It was so easy to find quiet time here--Edonomee was a manor that wanted to be sleeping. Maybe Maia, too, would have kept on sleeping, if his sudden epiphany hadn’t jolted him from his daze.  


He passed Setheris’ silent door, imagining what would happen if his cousin were to come out and see the sack slung over Maia’s shoulder. He made his planned stop in the kitchen, liberating apples and mushrooms and a wedge of cheese, a loaf of bread--anything he could think of that was easy to carry. And then he left his note, and stole the market money.

His last stop, just before he left the property, was by a tree a few hundred paces from the manor’s front gate. He laid his sack down on the frozen ground, found a sturdy stick, and began to chip at the dirt between the tree’s roots. It occurred to him, as he did so, that it might have been a good idea for him to pack a small trowel or something--who knew what might be useful on the road? But he couldn’t go back now: he’d lose his nerve, and then he’d be stuck forever.  


At last, the frozen soil broke free, and Maia scrabbled in the loose earth until he found what he was looking for: a little package wrapped in half-rotted cloth. He let the wrappings fall, unfolded the crumpled paper within, and took out a badly tarnished silver jewelry box. Inside, wrapped in more old paper and then in a silk handkerchief, he was relieved to find that the earrings his mother had given him had suffered no obvious hurt from their time under the ground.

He turned them under the moonlight, letting its cold radiance dance across the surfaces of pearl and silver. He wanted to put them on right now--take out the reed spacers he’d been wearing and be Chenelo’s son again. But common sense prevailed, and he wrapped the earrings again and hid them carefully at the bottom of his bag. With a last backwards glance at Edonomee, he was on his way--a lone hooded traveler walking quickly down the winter road.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, here we are. I'd like to say that such a long wait will be the exception, but... realistically, I'm probably always going to be pretty slow. If you've stuck around, thank you! I hope you'll find it worth the wait.
> 
> Content notes: I didn't expect to use the "Fantastic Racism" tag quite so soon, but here we are. Poor Maia. Also, there's some sort-of-unintentional sexual harassment towards the end. Please let me know if there are any other things you'd like me to tag as the story goes on.

He made good time along the road, at first. He’d come this far with Haru, though he was not permitted to go as far as the village. Three miles away, that was--and he’d walked that far around the grounds of Edonomee, on days when there was nothing else to do but stay inside and fight with Setheris. The sky tonight was clear--a bright full moon illuminating the countryside--and, though it was cold, at least that meant the road was firm and easy.

He would easily reach Edonis March tonight. He could probably be there in an hour. It might be better to skirt the village, though, since that was surely the first place Setheris would come looking for him; better if no one there had seen him at all. It gave Maia a pang to think of missing his last chance to see the place--at many times over the last seven years, the forbidden village had seemed as glittering and alluring as the court. But Maia wouldn’t risk his one chance at freedom to satisfy a moment’s curiosity. There would be other villages to see.

And when he’d passed Edonis March, he would have another choice to make: where to go next? The obvious choice was Calestho--he should be able to make it there within two or three days, even taking an easy pace. There would be work there, and hopefully people to advise him. But as the obvious choice, it was also the most predictable: Setheris would seek him there, when he did not find him in the village, and the short distance would make it much easier for his guardian to catch up. Perhaps Maia should circle back around towards the manor, and take the marsh road east and north towards Aveio. It would take Setheris weeks to look for him there, and that would give Maia more time to disappear.

But it would also take Maia weeks to get there. The marsh road was said to be very dangerous, with robbers haunting the lonelier stretches; and Maia had no weapons nor any idea how to use them. It would be a shame to get himself killed in his first week of freedom.

So Calestho it would have to be. He’d take the rabbit’s road, as Haru called it--cutting through farms and woodlands where he could, traveling by night as far as possible. It would be more scenic that way, anyway.

He began to watch the stars above, picking out the ones he knew by name. There was the Wolf’s Daughter, pointing the way north with her nose. And there were the Sisters--there the Warrior--there the Aurochs. Cstheio’s children were all watching him--and with this thought, Maia did not feel so alone.

“Cstheio Caireizhasan,” he said quietly, “hear me. Cstheio Caireizhasan, see me. Cstheio Caireizhasan, know me…”

  


Setheris Nelar woke in a wreck, as was so often the case these days. He took a moment to ascertain where he was--the sofa in his office, it seemed; he could feel the greasy nap of its velvet under his fingers. Importunate sunlight pressed against his eyelids, telling him the day was well advanced. Wincing, he wiped the grit from his eyes and rolled over. As he’d rather expected, the decanter that had been full of metheglin last night lay empty on the floor. He’d meant for it to last at least another day or so--his stock was running low. A night of bad decisions all around.

Pain began to gather in his liver as he braced himself to stand. He felt like vomiting. He was forty-four years old, and in another year he might well drink himself to death. His father, at least, had made it to sixty.

Grunting, Setheris pushed himself to his feet. Perhaps it would be for the best. If he died, Hesero would be able to make a new start, for what was left of her life, and wouldn’t have to convince herself to divorce him.

He tried to remember what had inspired him to drink so much last night, besides the general misery of his position. Ah, yes--the boy’s birthday had been yesterday. Though Maia’s thirteenth, fourteenth, and fifteenth birthdays had passed without notice from the Emperor, Setheris had held out hope that the sixteenth--the day of majority--would finally bring with it the Imperial reprieve. Though he’d known it was foolish, he had watched the gates all morning and into the afternoon, waiting for a messenger on a white-ribboned horse to come and tell him his life was his own again. Not until evening had he finally admitted to himself that he’d been deceiving himself from the beginning.

And just at that moment, His Grace the Goblin Archduke Maia Drazhar had barged into Setheris’ study and demanded to be treated like a man. 

Setheris frowned as his eyes fell on the spot where he’d knocked the boy to the ground. Perhaps a bit too rough--he always resolved not to be so rough, next time, but the brat did provoke him so. And now the servants would be impossible--if the boy had bruises, the tea would be cold for a week.

He stared pensively at the firescreen in front of the blackened hearth. He should have gotten rid of it--he remembered vaguely that the clumsy little hobgoblin had nearly fallen on it again last night. But it was meant to be a reminder to himself to behave. If Maia ever got his nerves together enough to write to his Imperial father…

Setheris wasn’t sure why his charge had never tried to contact Varenechibel. Cowardice, perhaps. Gods knew the child had plenty of that. Or perhaps the hobgoblin realized that a letter to the Emperor wouldn’t gain him anything he didn’t have already. The judgments of Varenechibel IV were irrevocable, as the fate of Arbelan Drazharan made abundantly clear.

 _And irrevocable for thee, as well,_ said a taunting voice in Setheris’ head. He might as well give up his hopes of seeing court again--thinking about it would only make him drink more. These thick stone walls, with their ugly hangings and stingy little windows, would likely be the last thing he ever saw. 

Rubbing his eyes as the headache began to pound harder behind them, Setheris stumbled from the room and went in search of tea.

It was hours before any of them realized something was wrong. 

Maia had gone off on one of his customary walks, taking his cloak and boots and apparently a rather healthy lunch (Setheris heard the cook clucking about missing bread as he sat hunched at the table with his head in his hands, taking intermittent sips of tea in an attempt to stave off the rising sickness). The boy would be back that night, probably well after dark--or else he’d go off and get himself drowned in a bog, and good riddance to the little wretch. 

Setheris was soon rousted from the breakfast room by the chatter of the cook and her daughter the maid, who were turning the downstairs upside down in an unnecessarily fervid fit of cleaning. He retreated to his bedroom, where he lay with a pillow over his head, and didn’t much think about Maia till the end of the day.

He should have, perhaps.

The servants started getting agitated around suppertime. Setheris happened to overhear the cook interrogating Haru about “the young master’s” whereabouts, and when he glanced at the parlor clock he was surprised to see that it was well after nine. To be sure, the boy was a careless fool, with no sense of time or consideration for the needs of others, but even when he was in a sulk his stomach usually brought him back before it got so late. For a moment, Setheris had the absurd thought that Maia might actually have drowned in a bog--but surely that was nonsense. The boy knew how to navigate the land around the manor safely. Most likely he was staying away to prove some sort of point about his independence. 

Well, if he would not come to dinner, let him go hungry. No swifter lesson than an empty stomach, after all.

When Setheris went into the dining room, the table was half set. Haru and Kevo were there again, this time conferring in hushed voices by one of the windows, and occasionally throwing sharp questions at Pelchara as if they suspected him of hiding the Archduke somewhere. When Setheris cleared his throat and gestured at the table, the three of them looked at him askance, but eventually the footman was back to setting out dishes and the other two left the room.

Dinner was a bit late, but Setheris was still queasy enough that he didn’t bother to comment. He ate his food in silence, glancing occasionally at the north-facing window whose curtains the servants had left half-open. When Haru approached him at table, boots and cloak on and hat in hand, and announced his intention to have a look outside for Maia, Setheris made no protest.

Haru was gone for two hours. In that time, the other servants worked themselves completely into a froth. Setheris couldn’t deny feeling a spike of anxiety himself, especially watching the frost crystals form across the blackness of the window, but he hid it as well as he could. Even in winter, one night from home wouldn’t do an otherwise healthy boy much harm. 

Then the thought of kidnapping came to mind, and he felt a moment of real unease. Would a kidnapper bother to come all the way out here to relieve the Emperor of his hated goblin son? It seemed unlikely. Surely anyone who knew to look for Maia at Edonomee would also know why he had been sent there.

Of course, there were other motivations for kidnapping. Setheris tried to think whether he’d heard any unsavory rumors about the residents of Edonis March or the surrounding area. Nothing came to mind, but then he hadn’t really been listening.

He began to feel more nervous.

Haru came back just long enough to ascertain that the boy hadn’t returned, and then went out again with Pelchara in tow. Shortly after they left, Kevo’s husband, who was some sort of shopkeeper in the village, arrived to see why his wife and daughter hadn’t come home. Before it occurred to Setheris to tell them to be circumspect, the women had explained the situation, and with that the problem left the walls of Edonomee. 

None of them slept that night. Haru and Pelchara continued their fruitless search of the marshes, and the women (having sent their patriarch home) stayed in and watched the lanterns bobbing from the windows and generally made themselves nervous. Setheris, for his part, stared at his hands and drank. He’d been thinking, that morning, that death might be a welcome escape from Edonomee--but if the Emperor’s son was lost due to Setheris’ own carelessness, the embrace of Ulis would not be a gentle one. 

Around dawn, the men returned. Haru looked years older. Setheris recalled that he and the boy had always been rather close--a shy man, perhaps Haru had found Maia’s own shyness welcome. Beside him, Pelchara was pale and staggering--he’d always seemed sickly, and the long cold search in heavy boots might well have been too much for him. 

Kevo called the men into the kitchen--ignoring Setheris, who’d taken to roaming the front entranceway like an impotent ghost. He heard them all talking--heard mugs and plates being set out, as the cock crowed outside and the sky through the windows began to brighten.

After a long time, Kevo came out and stood before him with her hands folded in front of her. Her voice, when she spoke, was an odd mixture of nervousness and defiance. “Osmer, we are going out,” she said, as if Setheris had any reason to care. “It’s about time to do the marketing, and we may as well do it now. Aäno will prepare the breakfast.” 

Setheris gestured irritably for her to be gone. “Yes, yes, do as you must, we’re sure.”

The woman did not leave. “Osmer,” she said, a bit more pointedly. “While we are at the market, we’ll have a few words with our friends. Perhaps one of them will know if someone’s seen a young man wandering.” 

Ah. The errand, then, was just an excuse. Setheris hesitated. If the woman made her inquiries, then the whole village would soon know that the young Archduke was missing, and that no one at Edonomee knew where to seek him.

But then, no one at Edonomee did know where to seek him. If Setheris undertook the search himself, he would be as lost as Maia. “All right,” he said, defeated. “But _discreetly_ , if you please.”

The cook didn’t quite snort, but the sentiment was clear. Barely looking at Setheris, she made her curtsy and returned to the kitchen.

A few minutes passed. Then a frightful shout rang out.

It took some time for the clucking and shrieking to fade. When it did, a letter was brought from the kitchen and presented to Setheris. A note, rather, written on plain paper in Maia’s effeminate hand.

Setheris scanned the missive quickly, his stomach sinking further with every word. It was addressed to the servants-- _To Kevo, Haru, Aäno, and Pelchara._ Not one word of it was directed to Setheris; nor was he even mentioned, except in commiseration for the fact that his ire would soon fall on the servants over Maia’s disappearance. For he had disappeared deliberately, it seemed--packed his bags and walked away from Edonomee, off to make his fortune in whatever way a talentless halfbreed with no connections or life experience could.

Setheris scanned the lines again and again, looking for any clue as to the boy’s intended destination. But there was nothing; only a quick succession of mawkish, informal platitudes-- _always been kind to me… miss you, and I hope you’ll miss me… think of me kindly when I’m gone, and look after yourselves…_ All to the servants. 

It wasn’t hurtful. Setheris had never had a good relationship with the child, and he knew that his dislike was mutual. Still, it was… _surprising_ that the boy had had not one word to say to the man who had raised him for the past seven years--a man who, indeed, might well have been the only father figure the boy had ever known. So much for the loyalty of children.

Setheris was so stunned by this development that it was Pelchara, of all people, who took the lead. “He’s had a day’s head start,” the young man said, picking up the letter Setheris had dropped and turning it over with delicate hands. “And it would have been two, if Kevo hadn’t decided to go to market early. Thank the gods thou didst!” he said to the older woman. “He must have been hoping for those two extra days--he knew what he was doing when he put this in the market basket. And stole the money!” Infuriatingly, Pelchara looked almost delighted by Maia’s duplicity. “Guess His Grace isn’t quite such a little mouse after all. We’d never in our life have thought he’d have the nerve." 

Setheris did his best not to grit his teeth. “If he has _money_ ,” he said tightly, “then he has _options._ He’ll get much farther now than he would have if he’d been penniless. How much did he take?”

“Enough for one week’s marketing,” Kevo said. “About six sous.” She seemed happy to have a concrete question to apply her attention to. “Lucky for us, Osmer, that he chose to do this so near to the end of the month. If he’d waited a week, then the money would have come, and there would have been enough in that basket to take him halfway to Barizhan.”

Setheris massaged his temples. “And how far will six sous take him?”

The servants looked at each other. “Well past Calestho, surely,” said Kevo. “Even just with the food he’s taken, he’s likely to get that far--if he’s careful, he won’t need to buy anything. Although… it’s cold. Perhaps he’ll stop at an inn.”

“We’ll check the inns,” said Setheris. “At least, as far as Calestho.” He thought of the number of inns and taverns they’d need to check once they got to the city, and winced. “And after that? Where will he go from there?” The servants looked at each other. Setheris sneered. “Surely you all would know. You’re all so _close_ to him, after all.” He reproved himself, then, for the unevenness of his tone. _Guard thine emotions, fool. They’re only servants._

Haru sketched lines with his fingers, as if drawing a map in the air. “His Grace may have gone to Aveio,” he said slowly, “if he was in a mood for adventure, as young men are wont to be. He did often ask us what lay that way.”

Pelchara nodded slowly. “In fact, Aveio might make the most sense, if his Grace is trying to get to Cetho or even to Barizhan. South of Calestho it’s only farms and villages for a hundred miles--so unless His Grace fancies traveling overland in the dead of winter…”

“The boy is an idiot,” Setheris muttered, ignoring the way the servants all stiffened at his comment. “He may well not have thought of that. And Calestho, as you say, is much closer--he may go there with the idea of looking for work. We’ll have to check both places.” He glanced over his shoulder at the faint dawn-light spilling into the hallway from the kitchen. “He wouldn’t have gone north, would he? Not across the marshes?”

Haru shook his head firmly. “His Grace has a healthy respect for the marshes, Osmer. And north of that, it’s only the steppes, and a few little villages. We don’t think he’d have any reason to go that way.”

Setheris exhaled slowly. “All right. We won’t check that way, at least for now. We’ll go to the--wait.” He turned to stare at Pelchara. “Why didst thou mention Cetho? And _Barizhan?_ ” 

The young man looked surprised, but not disconcerted, by the attention suddenly focused on him. “Well, it seemed to make sense, Osmer,” he said. “If His Grace is unhappy here, then perhaps he went to take up the matter with his fa--that is, with His Imperial Serenity the Emperor. Or perhaps, contrariwise, he went to see his mother’s people. If anyone were to have a place for him, it would be the Barizheise--they’re great ones for family down there, aren’t they?”

Setheris suppressed a moan. _Barizhan._ “So we have heard,” he murmured. “But as far as we recall, the boy has never in his life received so much as a letter from his grandfather--why would he hope to find a welcome there?” 

“The Emperor has never written to him, either,” Aäno blurted out, breaking her silence for the first time. Setheris was impressed; the maid disliked him intensely, and generally didn’t bother speaking when he was in the room. “Perhaps he thought it was even odds, Osmer,” she went on, barely looking at Setheris, “his father’s people, or his mother’s.” 

“Well, we can’t go far on suppositions,” Kevo said briskly. “We’d better check the village first, and then go from there. We’ll check the market, as we said--only we’ll need a bit of money, Osmer,” she added sheepishly. 

Setheris nodded. “Go quickly,” he said, starting towards his study. “Haru, Pelchara, go and pack for a journey. Pelchara, you’ll check the roads to Calestho, just in case. Haru, you’ll come with me to Aveio.” He sighed. “We’ll have to hire horses--we suppose we’d better find something to sell. Otherwise it will be a month or more before we get back.” 

Kevo paused in the kitchen doorway. “Osmer, you…”

“Yes?” Setheris said dangerously. He knew what the woman was thinking: in precise terms, he was not allowed to leave Edonomee at all. But the consequences of defying his relegation, harsh though they might be, were sure to fall to nothing beside what would happen to him should he be found to have lost the Emperor’s son.

Kevo seemed to have had the same thought, because after a moment she shook her head and averted her eyes. “Nothing, Osmer,” she muttered. “We’ll pack you some dinner for the road.”

As Maia had expected, it took him a little less than two days to reach the outskirts of Calestho. It had been a tiring journey, but not a difficult one; the marshes did not extend much south from Edonomee, and with the ground frozen the “rabbit’s road” across the fields and moors had been no more taxing than walking on a beaten track. He’d kept the real road in sight, but been careful to lie down whenever another traveler came in view; and, thanks to the drab gray cloak he’d worn every winter since he was twelve, he was quite sure no one had seen him.

Tantalizing though the lights of the city were, Maia had chosen to sleep outside for a second night rather than go in at dusk; he didn’t know where it might be safe to sleep in a city, and didn’t want to break into the money he’d stolen for a space at an inn before he’d even started looking for work. He still had a good bit of food--Setheris had often punished Maia by withholding supper, so missing a few meals wasn’t too great a hardship--and if he could find a secure windbreak, he knew he’d be quite comfortable. 

He’d slept the first night in an old woman’s barn, pillowed and blanketed with straw. The cow and ass that were the stalls’ only occupants had snorted and stomped for a moment, but they’d soon realized Maia was no threat, and the three of them had passed a quiet night. In the morning, Maia had lain like the dead in the darkness of his empty stall, listening as the old woman milked the cow and fed the two animals, but they’d made no sound to give him away and Maia had thanked them quietly as he slipped out later.

He would have been glad of such companions now--but all the barns he’d passed in the last hour had been firmly barred against the dusk, and the few people he’d seen had all watched him suspiciously until he’d passed. City people, he supposed, were inherently untrusting. Perhaps it came of seeing so many people one did not know, or of living in a place where theft and even murder were common.

Regardless of the reason, Maia did not dare to try and hide himself in such well-guarded properties. He pressed on until at last, almost beneath the north gate of the city, he found a woodshed with an open front. Into this he crawled--wedging himself in amongst the logs, wrapping and cushioning himself as well as he could with the fortunately bulky cloak--and, if he did not sleep many hours that night, at least he did not freeze. 

When dawn light began to seep between the gaps in the woodshed’s rough walls, Maia roused himself and set out for the city. On the way, he breakfasted on most of his remaining food--the bread and cheese quickly petrified by the journey, but still edible. He’d filled a cider bottle with snow and spring water as needed along the way, and fortunately found snow enough to fill it once more before he reached the city gates. Upon a moment’s thought, he stripped off his shirt, used more melted snow to scrub himself as well as he could--how he wished he’d thought to bring soap!--and put on his only clean shirt. Then, wrapping in his cloak once more, he went to face his fortune. 

The gates had just been opened for the day, letting in a small caravan of farmers with milk and cheese to sell. They all looked at Maia askance as he passed them, though none said a word to him. He assumed, at first, that he’d rated their skepticism merely by virtue of being unaccompanied. When he reached the gates, however, he was painfully disillusioned of that idea.

“Where art thou going, goblin boy?”

The guardsman was tall, and more solid than elvish men usually grew. He wore a thick brown cloak and leather armor, but his helm and the head of his halberd were made of shining steel. Across the cuirass that covered his broad chest was painted a picture Maia supposed must be the city’s arms: a red sun rising over a field of grain.

Maia stared for perhaps a little too long. The soldier’s eyes narrowed. “Come on, answer up, gobby,” he said, glancing at his partner--an identically dressed man standing on the other side of the gateway. “What’s thy business here?”

“Looking for work,” Maia said belatedly. “Ah… mer.”

“No family here?” The other guard’s tone was less openly hostile, but just as firm. He shifted slightly, and as if by accident, his halberd tilted forward to cover half the doorway.

“N-no, mer,” Maia said, bewildered. He had never heard that travelers were greeted like this in cities, not unless they were obviously dangerous--but perhaps he had read the wrong stories. And _gobby_? Why call him that? 

_Goblin_ , he realized after half a second. His shoulders fell. In Calestho, too, it seemed, he could expect to be called by his race and not by name.

The men were looking him over as if they’d caught a rat trying to creep into the city in disguise. “Not much work for thee here, we’d wager,” said the first, sneering, “not with the dirt of the road and the smell of the fields still upon thee. And, of course, there’s the fee.”

Maia’s stomach sank. “Fee, mer?” 

The men exchanged glances. The second guard looked Maia up and down, as if measuring him. “Five sous, it will be, to pass the gate.”

Maia blanched. He’d carefully counted the stolen market money, checking it over and over on the course of his journey, and each time had come to six sous and five denari. It was enough to keep their household of six in food for a week, provided they didn’t buy much meat--he’d often heard Kevo grumble about it. But things were said to be much more expensive in cities.

The guards were watching him. The first had put out his hand expectantly. “Well? Pay up, boy, or get out of the way so that others may come through.”

Maia looked at the ‘others’: three stolid farmers, standing a little way back and watching this spectacle with idle attention. Shame flushed hot in Maia’s cheeks, and the tips of his ears began to sink.

Then he noticed that the men behind him did not have their purses out.

“Does everyone have to pay this fee, mer?” he said carefully. 

The first guard snorted. “No, hobgoblin. Only thee.”

The sinking feeling turned to anger. Maia took a deep breath, and then another. Shouting--scathing words--any kind of aggression, in fact, would probably earn him nothing but a clout across the head. “Why do they not have to pay, mer?” he said carefully.

“Because we like them, boy, and we know them,” snapped the guard. “We don’t know thee, nor do we care to. Thou lookest like a footpad in thy gray rags. If thou wilt enter the city, a stranger without friends, then thou must pay--consider it protection against the money thou wilt surely steal whilst th’art inside.”

Maia kept his head low, not raising his eyes lest the guards might see the expression in them. Slowly, he rummaged through his sack, until he found the knotted dishrag he’d put his money into. He counted his sous again, and then at last looked up. “Please, mer,” he said quietly. “It’s almost all we have."

“Then take it and go, blackshadow,” called one of the farmers behind him. “The gods know thou art no loss to anyone here. Why camest thou here, if thou hadst no money? To beg upon the streets?”

Maia clutched the coins in his hand and thought desperately. Perhaps it would be best to go--to see if one of the farms along the road had some work for him, and thus to earn a little money to be going on with… Then again, it seemed unlikely that any of the farms he’d seen would be looking for help this time of year. It was two days past Winternight--all the fields were long fallow. The farmers, like all sensible beings, were holed up in their homes, doing their best to stay warm--only emerging, like the examples behind him, to sell cheese and butter and root vegetables for extra income. And--as he’d already seen clearly--the farmers here were very unlikely to like or trust him at first glance.

No point, then, in going backwards. Forward was the only way.

Slowly, trying not to wince, Maia counted the five coins into his hand. Each felt as heavy on his palm as the sins of a dead man before Ulis. Aware that there was no going back from this, he took a deep breath, and set the coins carefully in the hand of the first and cruelest guard.

The man grinned. “There’s a good lad.” He looked the coins over, perhaps checking that they were genuine, and then dropped them into a purse at his hip that did not look particularly official. “On you go, then,” he said, not even looking at Maia. “Don’t clog the gateway.”

Things only grew worse from there. Maia had only entered a city once in his life before this, passing briefly through Cetho on the way to his mother’s funeral, and those terrible few days in the Alcethmeret had not afforded him much of a chance to look about the city.

Then, too, although Maia had glimpsed Cetho only briefly, he had the strong feeling that it had not been anything like this. Calestho was… _small,_ was the only way to put it. The streets were narrow, and the walkable sections even narrower--each side of the street was a midden of garbage and filth. The shops were crowded close together, bored hawkers shouting over each other to be heard above the constant mutter of the crowd. In better sections of the city, this din gave way to the constant ringing clap of iron horseshoes on cobblestones.

It was a terrible way to live, he thought at times, taking in the drawn unhealthy faces of the citizens. Not a breath of clean air anywhere, and all the children ragged and dirty--at least the ones Maia could see. Perhaps wealthier families kept their children indoors. Chenelo, he knew, would have found this place appalling.

Or perhaps she wouldn’t have. The daughter of the Great Avar, she had grown up in a city--the far-away capital of Barizhan--though Maia had a feeling she’d mostly been kept inside. Perhaps his mother would have enjoyed walking the streets, as he was doing now--taking in other people’s faces, seeing how strangers lived. On the whole, he doubted it--Chenelo had been desperately shy--but he would never know for sure.

Whatever the truth was, however, Maia himself was completely overwhelmed within five minutes of walking through the city gate. Too much to see--to hear--to smell--the street slick and filthy under his boots, and the constant push of strangers jostling him, more with every minute as the day warmed and the sun rose higher.

They stared, too: some openly, at his hair and his skin and his long gray cloak; others covertly, little flickers of their eyes as they passed, when they thought he wasn’t looking. Every time someone caught his eye--a young man in a brightly colored scarf, a woman doubled over with bags, a trio of children dancing in a circle between the feet of a crowd unloading vegetables--Maia would pause for an extra look, and would find their eyes already upon him. It was _exhausting._ He felt himself the focus of the world’s attention--and couldn’t even tell himself that he was being ridiculous, as all signs pointed to the contrary.

Sadly, their attention did not extend as far as trust. Not a single person in the city, it seemed, was prepared to offer Maia even a single day’s work.

The crews unloading crates of root vegetables shooed him away.

The hawkers at the shop doors jeered at him.

The street vendors said they needed no assistance, and chased him off as if afraid he’d steal their wares. 

Inns and taverns did not need his help; they had plenty of people to do the washing and the serving and the sweeping, and anyway (they said) he’d scare away the customers.

Worst were the ones who asked what Maia could actually _do._ Sputter as he might, he couldn’t come up with a single concrete skill that an innkeeper or a tradesman might find useful. Best were the ones who simply said _no thank you--we need no help here--we’ve apprentices._ At least these gave Maia the dignity of telling himself he’d never have been chosen no matter who he was.

The apprentices were a revelation for Maia. Every tradesman had them, and most of them were younger than him. They bustled around in their masters’ shadows--sweeping floors, fetching wood, sorting nails and other scraps--all of them industrious and self-assured, more men than boys in their tradesmen’s crops and crisp workers’ aprons. _They_ , at least, had a place here. So long as they did their work and learned their craft, none of them need ever be hungry or homeless.

Their parents would have arranged the apprenticeships for them, of course. He had learned a little bit about the subject when he’d briefly dreamed of being a maza as a small boy. Watching one especially small boy briskly sweeping the floor of a glazier’s workshop, Maia allowed himself briefly to wonder what his life would have been like if his parents--Chenelo the loving, Varenechibel the powerful--had somehow arranged an apprenticeship for him.

It was a ludicrous thought, he knew. Useless though he was, Maia was a son of the Imperial house--of two royal houses, in fact, though he’d never heard the Barizheise’s feelings on the matter. Had his bloodline been only half so illustrious, he’d never have been permitted to sully his hands with a trade. An emperor’s son--or any nobleman’s son--was largely expected to be charming, eloquent, and decorative.

And Maia--Maia the fool, Maia the hobgoblin, Maia the moonwitted bumpkin--could not even meet those very simple requirements.

He allowed himself to mope about this for a time, sitting out of sight in the shadows of a small othasmeire. It was well past noon now, and he was getting hungry. He thought of eating a bit of his remaining food, but the prices he’d seen while wandering the market--four denari for a loaf of bread, eight for a block of cheese!--had made it clear that he’d better conserve his resources for as long as he could. With his one remaining sou, and his tiny handful of loose coins, only seventeen denari in total stood between him and ruin.

He got up and started walking again.

Around four by the chiming of the bells, Maia happened upon a single bit of luck--or, rather, charity: an elderly lady, selling workers’ lunches at a stall in a corner of the main square, allowed Maia to sweep the cobblestones around her business in exchange for a bowl of pottage and a slab of bread and cheese. After ten hours’ wandering in the cold, it was far and away the best food he’d ever eaten. He mumbled his gratitude to the vendor, who almost certainly hadn’t needed his help, and wondered guiltily if she might allow him to “help” her again tomorrow.

Around sundown, a new problem began to assert itself: he had no place to sleep, and now had no money to afford one. A bed in the cheapest and most flea-bitten of inns, he’d learned in the course of his inquiries, would cost at least as much as he had, and most likely much more than that. He thought briefly of going out to sleep in the woodshed again--but then he’d have no money to get back in, should the “fee” be imposed again, and nowhere to go from there. It looked like he would be sleeping on the street tonight. 

As he headed back toward the othasmeire, however--thinking vaguely that he might shelter in the shadow of its columns--he had an idea. He had worked for his bread already once today. Might not one of the inn or tavern owners allow him to work for his bed, too--or at least a warm spot by the fire?

At least it was something to ask about--anything to keep the night from closing in just yet. With a little more energy in his stride, Maia set off to make another round of inquiries.

His hope proved false, unfortunately. Working for one’s keep was all very well in stories; the stranded traveler always seemed to find someone willing to give them the benefit of the doubt, exchanging a bowl of stew and a place by the fire for a hard day’s work. Not so in real life, apparently: people seemed to find Maia even more suspicious w.hen he asked for a night’s board than they had when he’d asked for paying work. Worse: many of the places he was visiting now were ones he’d already stopped by earlier in the day--and he’d seen so many places today that he couldn’t recognize the ones he’d already been to. Many times he’d barely opened his mouth before the landlord was shooing him away, telling him to go and bother someone else before they called the constable on him.

Eventually, however, Maia wandered into streets that were less familiar. Though he’d thought he was crossing a vast area today, it seemed he’d actually confined himself to a small collection of neighborhoods, and now he was moving into unexplored territory. He had mixed feelings about this. On one hand, it meant he had a slightly better chance of finding work. On the other hand, if he stayed too long after dark, he was in very real danger of losing his way. 

Timidly, he began to make inquiries here, too. He entered one tavern full of colorfully dressed ladies who seemed to be waiting for someone else. When he began to stammer out his inquiry, they laughed and told him to come back when he was a little taller. It took him an hour to realize, blushing furiously, that they had probably been whores. Another tavern was almost empty--filled with ominous silence and two groups of men, who stared at each other over a spread of playing cards as if they were about to start a war. Maia let himself out of this place without speaking. Several establishments were closed and dark; others were open, but full of crowds so rough-looking that he feared to go inside. The streetlamps here were farther apart than they had been in other places, and in the dark gaps between them Maia thought fearfully of robbers and worse. He began to think that he should have gone to the othasmeire after all.

At last he came to a tavern that looked a little better. It was a low brown building, old but in decent condition, with lighted windows in a few of the rooms on the upper floor. The sign on the door was painted in crisp, bright colors. It showed a woman on horseback, cloaked and veiled, riding away from a group of soldiers. The name below read, _THE SWIFT LADY._

Maia took a moment to brace himself for another rejection, and then he opened the door. The common room he entered was dim, lit by a mid-sized fire in the hearth and a few lamps and candles around the room. There weren’t many people there: a small group of middle-aged men in one corner, and a young man drinking alone at a table beside the fire.

Behind the bar, a man in his thirties was polishing a glass. When he saw Maia, he looked him up and down, and finished the inspection with a surprisingly friendly smile. “Good evening, lad,” he said, setting the glass down. “Here for a drink, are you? Or were you looking for someone?” His gaze flicked to the young man by the fireplace before returning to Maia.

“No… that is…” Maia was intensely conscious of the road dirt on his clothes, the lightness of his little bundle of coins. He hoped the man wouldn’t be too humiliating when he chased him out.

The barman frowned. “Needing a room, then? We’ll warn you, they run a bit pricey here.”

Maia lowered his ears, ashamed. He moved a little closer to the bar, hoping that if he spoke low enough the other guests might not know of his humiliation. “We’re looking for work, mer. We’re… new in town, and in need of a place to stay. We know it’s a bit unusual, but if you have any work that needs to be done, in exchange for a place to sleep…”

He trailed off. The man was looking at him as if he were seeing Maia for the first time--seeing him as a beggar for the first time, probably. “What sort of work,” the barman said slowly, “did you have in mind, young man?”

Maia’s mind went blank. No one else had entertained the idea for even a second--he wasn’t prepared for follow-up questions. “I…” He faltered. “We, ah. Well…”

The barman leaned forward, suddenly seeming much more interested. Despite the dimness of the room and the darkness of Maia’s complexion, he seemed to know that Maia was blushing. “You seem a likely young man,” he drawled. There was an odd tone in his voice that Maia didn’t recognize. “We’re sure we’d be able to work something out. Ah… what sort of… work… are you most skilled at?”

Maia was at a loss. Something was being said here that he wasn’t understanding--but the general tone of the conversation seemed to be positive. “We wouldn’t say we have a particular skill at anything, mer,” he said, daring a little honesty. “But we’re happy to help out with whatever might need doing. Perhaps in the kitchen?” He’d often helped Kevo out in the kitchen at Edonomee, for want of anything better to do. He wasn’t any great hand at matters culinary--no more than at anything else he’d tried--but he could chop vegetables and stir a pot well enough. 

“The kitchen.” The barman gave Maia a pointed look, as if he’d unintentionally said something funny. “Generally we’re alone back there, but… well, and why not?” He laughed, suddenly, and his grin became a leer. “Come on back to the kitchen, then, our fine young lad. We’ll find a job for you to do.”

Maia was more and more sure that he and the barman were having different conversations. But what else could he do? He shifted his grip on his bag and prepared to follow.

A hand clamped down on his shoulder, making Maia jump. He whirled to see that the young man who’d been drinking by the fireplace had come up behind him while he’d been distracted. He was a little older than Maia had thought--perhaps 27 or 28--and wore his hair in an elaborate arrangement of plaits. His clothes, though made of wool, reminded Maia oddly of courier’s leathers. 

The man let go of Maia’s shoulder. His expression was a mix of amusement and pity. “We wouldn’t really advise going back there,” he said. “We don’t think you’d much like the sort of job he has in mind for you.”

Instantly, the barman dropped his leer. “Shalis Breva, thou busybody,” he said, glaring at the newcomer. “We’ll thank thee to take thyself back to thy table and let thy betters conduct their business.”

The newcomer snorted derisively. “We’d suggest, Bara Manezh,” he said, “that thou look'st into thy business a little more carefully before thou takest it up. It seems to us that the fruit thou’rt eyeing is a little underripe--especially for an old fellow such as thyself.” As the barman squawked in outrage, Shalis Breva tapped Maia’s shoulder lightly and said, “How old are you, young man?”

Maia was finally beginning to get an inkling of what was happening--just enough that he wished desperately to sink through the floor. “Sixteen, mer,” he said, staring at his feet.

Bara Manezh made a sound like a chicken being choked.

Shalis Breva seemed unsurprised. “And how long have you been sixteen?” he said, not unkindly. 

“Four days, mer.”

“And what did you think you would be doing in the kitchen?” the man said patiently.

His very tone told Maia that his inkling had been correct. “Scrubbing vegetables,” he muttered, angry at his own foolishness. “Or washing dishes.”

There followed a short silence. When Maia looked up, he found Shalis Breva staring pointedly at Bara Manezh. 

“All right, all right,” Manezh said finally, waving Shalis Breva off irritably. “We’ve acted the ass. Sorry for propositioning you, lad,” he said to Maia.

Maia ducked his head uncomfortably, unsure what he should say. _That’s all right_ seemed somehow inappropriate. “We should have spoken more clearly,” he managed finally.

Manezh seemed to think that concluded the conversation. “All right, Mother Conscience,” he said to Shalis Breva, “back to thy table. And you, lad, find somewhere to sit. We’ll bring you a bit of dinner, anyway. No charge,” he added kindly, when Maia fumbled for his money.

Maia knew it was charity, but was desperately grateful for it just the same. “Thank you, mer,” he said inadequately, looking around from somewhere to sit.

Shalis Breva caught the edge of Maia’s sleeve. He jerked his head toward the table by the fireplace. “Will you sit with us a bit?” he said. “We want to ask you about something.”

Nervously, Maia nodded, and allowed himself to be led to the table. The older men in the corner, he noted gratefully, were all deeply involved in their own conversation. He doubted they even knew he was there, much less that he’d just been propositioned. Still, he felt very clumsy as he settled himself into the chair Shalis Breva indicated. He wondered what such a neat, competent gentleman could ever want with him.

“You’re not from around here, we take it,” Mer Breva said. He set down a second glass Maia hadn’t seen him pick up, and poured half his own beer into it. “What’s your name?” 

“Chenelis,” Maia said instantly. He’d expected the question, and had certainly had enough time to practice the answer--but he still felt a little thrill of delight and pride when he said it.

Mer Breva passed him the glass. Maia took it and drank cautiously. It was about as strong a beer as he was used to--but he was used to drinking it along with a full meal, not on an empty stomach after three days’ walking in the cold. He took another small sip and set the beer down, not wanting to get fuzzy-headed.

Mer Breva smiled. “Not a great drinker, we take it?”

Maia realized then that he might seem to be rejecting the other’s gift. “Oh, no, I… we… well, to be honest… it’s very good beer, but…” 

His companion snorted. “No need to flounder. It’s not as if we brewed the stuff. Chenelis, is it? And do you have a family name?”

Maia froze. That part he had _not_ thought of. For an instant he thought of shortening his family name from _Drazhar_ to the local variant _Drazh_ \--but _Chenelis Drazh_ would be a little too on-the-nose in the event that someone came looking for him. “Uh…” he said helplessly. “Well. Well…” 

Mer Breva stared at him for a moment. Then, blessedly, he took pity. “We suppose,” he said carefully, “that it’s one of the usual surnames for this area. Vezh, perhaps? Tanazh?”

“Tanazh!” said Maia, grabbing desperately onto the first that sounded plausible. “Yes, I’m Chenelis Tanazh.”

“Are you.” The other sighed. “And you’re sixteen? Were you sixteen when you ran away, Chenelis Tanazh? Or were you still fifteen then?”

Maia sputtered. “I--But I didn’t--We--” He realized, after a moment wherein Mer Breva only stared at him, that there was no point in denying it: in his dusty and penniless state, with his child’s hairstyle and pitiful bag of belongings, he was as obvious a runaway as it was possible to be. “Sixteen, mer,” he said, staring down at the sticky tabletop. “We left on our birthday.”

Mer Breva looked sympathetic, but unsurprised. “That bad at home, was it?”

Maia hesitated. As impossible as it had been for him to remain at Edonomee--and he could not regret his decision to leave, no matter what the outcome was--he didn’t want to misrepresent the situation. “We… had disagreements with our guardian, mer,” he said carefully. “The rest of the household was very kind, but they were servants--they had no power to change anything. We had to leave--we would never have been… whole… there.”

Mer Breva nodded slowly. He was peering at Maia’s face as if he could read something written there. “By chance, did your guardian write out his argument upon your cheek?” he said. “Your skin is dark, but we believe we see a bit of his writing there.”

Maia’s hand rose automatically to his cheek. A slight pain there reminded him of the bruise Setheris had given him on his last night at home--a relic from another lifetime. “Yes, mer,” he said, lowering his gaze again. “He… was wont to write like that, from time to time.”

Mer Breva was quiet for a moment. Finally he said, “We do not wish to be insensitive, Mer Tanazh, but we feel we must ask: what was the nature of your disagreement with your guardian?”

Maia didn’t want to answer. The humiliation was back upon him--he was back on the floor in Setheris’ study, looking up at his hateful guardian through a haze of pain and tears. He was back in Edonomee, despised and unwanted once again--a prisoner for the rest of his days.

Feeling a slight ache, he realized he was running his fingers over the bruise, feeling out the edges of it as he often did with the nest of scars on his forearm. He lowered his hand quickly. “We disagreed, mer,” he said, as evenly as he could, “over whether a _hobgoblin_ like myself could ever be worthy of the same dignity and respect as a proper elven _gentleman_ like my guardian. “ He checked himself. “ _Our_ guardian. We apologize, mer. We’re unused to speaking formally.”

His companion was staring at him again, looking vaguely startled. Maia wondered whether he’d said too much--but Mer Breva _had_ asked the question.

“Can you read?” Mer Breva said abruptly. 

“Read?” Maia was so surprised by the question that at first he could not make sense of it. “Of course we can read, mer. Who can’t?”

“Any number of people--perhaps most people,” said Mer Breva, rather sharply, “and there’s no shame in not knowing, which we suggest you’d better remember. But your turn of phrase suggests you’ve had some education, however… _remiss_ your guardian might have been in other ways.” 

He began to look through his pockets. As he did so, the barman, Mer Manezh, came up and laid a pair of plates on the table--each loaded with mashed turnips, salt pork, and thick slices of bread and butter. At the sight of it, Maia nearly began to cry. 

“Here you go, lad,” said Manezh, tapping the table by Maia’s plate. “And for thee as well, Breva--thou’rt working through thy meals again, we’ll warrant. Nay, put thy money away--it’s a service we do, feeding thee up a bit, so thy looming bones won’t scare the children.” 

Mer Breva snorted. “We thank thee, kind benefactor, for thy consideration.” He saluted Manezh with what remained of the beer in his glass. “And now back to thy lair, taplash--we’ve business to attend to.”

“Business?” Manezh paused, peering with undisguised interest between the two of them. “Art thou getting thy claws into this poor lad? Mayhap he would have done better as a--”

“Bara,” Mer Breva said sharply, glancing at Maia. 

At his tone, Manezh raised his hands and backed away. “Your pardon, gentlemen. We’ll back to our lair, as ordered.” With no more protest, he returned to his place behind the bar. 

Mer Breva sighed. “Now.” He passed Maia a creased half-sheet of paper, which he must have been produced while the barman had been delivering the food. It looked as if it had spent most of its life in pockets, and contained four or four lines of cramped writing in faded ink. 

Maia took the paper, deciphered the writing, and blinked. “We’ve read this,” he said. “Our guardian gave us this book once.”

“Did he indeed?” Mer Breva said, sounding mildly surprised. “Read it for us, please.”

The smell of the food in front of him was an excruciating temptation, but Maia forced himself to keep his attention on the task he’d been given. “‘It was found in those days, once a survey had been made among the landowners and their grievances had been well noted, that the conflicts lately risen between the emperor and his vassals had been--’”

“That’s enough.” Mer Breva gave Maia an unreadable look. He fished a stub of pencil out of his waistcoat pocket. “And now, will you copy it over? On the back of that, please.”

Maia took the pencil, turned the paper over, and did as he was told. Now intensely aware that his performance was being evaluated, he wrote as neatly as he could, and fancied he managed it considerably better than the original copyist had done.

He gave the paper back to Mer Breva, who looked at it and snorted. “Had to show us up, did you? Very well, then; you can write, and much more prettily than we can.” He tapped the other side of the paper, and Maia realized with a flash of embarrassment that Mer Breva himself must have been the writer. 

“We’re sorry, mer,” he began awkwardly, but Mer Breva waved him off. 

“Don’t be absurd; it’s hardly a bad thing. Now, then, Mer Tanazh, we believe you’re looking for work. Is that correct?”

Maia’s heart leaped. “Yes, mer. Any kind available--or… almost any kind, we suppose.” His blush returned as he glanced with remembered embarrassment at the bar. 

Mer Breva raised his eyebrows. “No shame in that work, either, if it comes down to it. We hope you don’t look down on those who do earn their bread that way.”

“No, mer!” Maia said quickly. It seemed he was to be perpetually wrong-footed in this conversation. “Our mother always said that everyone has their own way of making it in the world, and there’s no harm in any of them as long as it hurts no one. It’s only… we’ve never…” His cheeks grew even warmer. 

“Ah,” Mer Breva said. “No, we suppose you wouldn’t have. In any case, young man, if that’s not a road you’d like to go down right now, then you’d better find another line of work posthaste, and as it happens we may have one to offer you.” He studied Maia’s eager expression. “Can you ride?”

Maia’s heart sank as suddenly as it had risen. “No, mer,” he mumbled, crestfallen. “We never learned.”

“All right--don’t look so sad about it,” Mer Breva said. “We can teach you that. Just know that you’ll be called on to teach, in turn--not all of our recruits come to us knowing their letters."

“Of course, mer!” Maia said, feeling giddy as hope returned once more. “We’d be happy to help. Ah… but what sort of work is it we’d be doing, exactly?” 

Mer Breva smiled. “Eat up, lad--you look about to fall apart,” he said, pushing Maia’s plate towards him. “As to the work… have you ever thought of becoming a courier?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Roll credits. ^ ^
> 
> Re: currency: I can't find ANY mention of currency in TGE. If I have missed it, I'd love if you could point the way for me so I can fix it. As it is, I decided to just vaguely adapt the Frankish/medieval French currency system because [reasons]. Just assume Maia got away with about sixty bucks, real-world dollars, and now... he doesn't have them anymore. -_- Poor baby.
> 
> BTW: I realized, as I was writing this, that book-Maia has very likely NEVER HANDLED CURRENCY, except maybe to make small purchases from traveling traders as a child. And he's emperor now! Can you imagine? So there's one life skill he's picking up...
> 
> Also: I found the word "taplash" in [this](https://archive.org/stream/dictionaryofslan00farmuoft/dictionaryofslan00farmuoft_djvu.txt) delightful list of archaic English slang. If anyone is looking for something like that, they might find it useful. ^_^ Thanks again for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maia is looked for, and learns to ride a horse. (Sorry, no actual horse-riding lessons depicted, because Yr Author has never taken one.)

An hour later, full of hot food and another glass of good beer, Maia followed Shalis Breva from the doors of The Swift Lady. It was well past full dark now, and the shadows were deeper and thicker, but this time Maia barely noticed them. His head was spinning. A _courier._ He was going to be a _courier!_

It would never have occurred to him to look into such a job. He’d never wondered how couriers were hired, or where they drew their forces from. They simply _were_ \--an army of fleet, fearless messengers, with royal writs in their pockets and horses to ride, with the whole world open to them. Spirits, almost--arriving unannounced, and departing on the next shift of the wind. They’d rarely come to Edonomee, and it had been even more rare that Maia had a chance to speak to one. They’d inhabited a different world.

And now he was going to be one of them.

There had been particulars, but he could barely keep them straight in his head. He’d have to confirm them later, when he’d had time to sit with this new idea awhile. But he had a place to sleep tonight, and tomorrow he’d be taken to a stable, where he would work for several weeks while he was learning to ride. (To _ride!_ ) He wouldn’t be paid at first, Mer Breva had said--that would start with his deliveries--but he’d have plenty to eat and a place to sleep while he was training. And at the very least, he was safe for tonight.

And if he didn’t like it, or if things weren’t as Mer Breva had said… well, in that case, Maia could leave again! He almost laughed to realize it. He wasn’t bound to one _place_ anymore. He wasn’t beholden to Mer Breva, no matter how much he appreciated the man stepping in tonight. He wasn’t beholden to _anyone_ \--not even the emperor, he thought fiercely. Any natural duty he might have owed to his father was surely canceled out by what Varenechibel had done to Chenelo. Maia would make his own choices now--would set his own path.

And right now, he thought with satisfaction, that path was taking him to a clean, warm bed in Calestho’s courier depot.

“All right, here we are.” Mer Breva stopped beside an unassuming house and took a set of keys from his pocket. In the dark, the house looked like any other--but as they got closer, Maia saw that a sign with a prancing horse emblem was hung beside the door. “We don’t keep a servant, so you’ll have to do for yourself, but there’s food if you’re still hungry, and plenty of clean blankets. You’ll need clothes, we expect?” he added, looking askance at Maia’s small bag by the light of the last streetlight.

Maia blushed. He’d brought what he could, but hadn’t wanted to encumber himself with a heavy pack. “We have a few shirts,” he muttered, “and another pair of breeches, but they’re not as good as these.”

Mer Breva glanced doubtfully at Maia’s clothing. “They’ll do for now, we suppose. You won’t need anything special for the stables. Once you’re done there, we’ll get you a proper uniform.” He swung the door open, revealing a darkened entranceway. “Inside, if you will. We’ll both of us want to go to bed soon, we suspect.”

The house was cramped, but comfortable. It must have started life as an ordinary dwelling, and still had a parlor and kitchen. One room, however, had been converted into a dispatcher’s office, cramped with ledger books and papered all over with maps. Remembering how the barman had scolded Mer Breva, Maia supposed the dispatcher must spend most of his time there.

“You’ll have to sleep in the kitchen,” Mer Breva said apologetically. “The beds have all been claimed. The lads are all out on deliveries right now, but they’ll likely throw us both out into the street if they come home and find their beds occupied.”

Maia didn’t mind in the slightest. The kitchen was quite warm, and with a generous pallet of blankets provided by his new employer, he made a comfortable bed near the hearth. He was permitted to help himself to bread and cheese, and--marvel of marvels--given full run of the parlor bookcase. “Read what you like,” said Mer Breva, laughing as Maia stared longingly at the shelves of well-worn books. “You can even take one with you, if you like, when you go to the stables. Just keep them in good condition, and try to limit yourself to one at a time.”

“Yes, mer. Thank you, mer.” Maia could not manage more words than that. His eyes had already lit on a volume of Barizheize fairy tales--the same volume of stories, he was sure, that his mother had read to him at Isvaroë a lifetime ago. He took the volume from the shelf and pressed it gently to his chest, wondering if he’d ever be able to put it down again.

Mer Breva, blessedly, refrained from comment--but his tone was gentle when he said, “There’s water in the kitchen, and you’re welcome to build up the fire a bit if you’d like to take a bath. After that, though, we suggest you get to sleep--we’ll be making an early start tomorrow.”

Thus Maia, a little later--clean, well-fed, and safe for the first time in three days--laid himself down in his blankets before the hearth and read himself to sleep.

\---

Pelchara had been to Calestho before, of course. It was the only city of any size within easy travel of Edonomee, and Osmer Nelar often sent him there on business. Those errands had taken Pelchara to Aveio, too, and even once to Ezho--where he’d watched a pawnbroker sneer over the heirloom ornaments Osmer Nelar had sent him to sell, and had had to take far too little money for them.

As a child, too, Pelchara had journeyed with his master between the western cities--had fetched and carried, run errands and chivvied customers, and in the process collected so many kicks and beatings that he’d run away at the first opportunity. He might have been a journeyman by now, he often grimly reminded himself--if the itinerant tinker his mother had foisted him off on had even been qualified to train one, which he rather doubted. Instead, it seemed Pelchara’s lot to drift from servitude to servitude, sometimes for better masters and sometimes for worse ones, always a tool in another man’s hand.

In truth, his current position wasn’t so bad. Oh, Osmer Nelar was a piece of work, certainly; but the food was decent, and the pay came on time. The other servants at Edonomee, though dour and grim as the marshland people always were, were decent folks. They’d treated him fairly, and welcomed him as much as they welcomed anyone, and a footman couldn’t ask much more than that.

But gods, Edonomee was a dreary place. Pelchara couldn’t fault the Archduke for wanting to get away from it. In fact, as he looked down the long frozen road towards Calestho, he found a small part of himself hoping that His Grace had gotten clean away.

He’d never really thought much about the Archduke before. It seemed strange to say it--caring for HIs Grace was what they’d all been hired to do, after all--but the needs and wants of the Emperor’s son had always seemed oddly incidental at Edonomee. Osmer Nelar was the undisputed master of that house, and he’d always made sure everyone knew it. His Grace, by contrast, had always been shy, and had seemed to prefer roaming the countryside with Haru to anything that would keep him in the house. That, combined with the three-year age gap between them, had led Pelchara to more or less disregard the Young Master in the two years he’d served at Edonomee. Edonis March had a merry enough crowd that he hadn’t wanted for company, and His Grace the Archduke seemed to prefer being left alone.

As a result, it was a bit hard now to decide what His Grace might have done once he’d left the manor grounds. Would he have kept to the road, or sidetracked across the fields? Would he have kept to the open, or tried to take shelter somewhere? The season meant there would be no tracks. Even if there had been, Pelchara was no woodsman and wouldn’t have been able to read them. He’d been making inquiries at every farm he found, but knew that every stop he made let his quarry get a little farther ahead of him.

He’d camped early last night--exhausted from a night of tramping through the frozen marshes with Haru, he’d only managed about seven miles of walking before he’d had to stop. Now it was evening, and he stood before a small farmstead, wondering whether it would be worth the effort to ask the owner for a night’s shelter.

As he stared speculatively at the barn, he heard the house door open. “Is there something we can help you with?” called a creaking voice. “Or will you stand there staring at our barn all night?”

Turning, Pelchara saw that the farmwife--an elderly woman with a gray shawl over her head--had come out onto the stoop. She stared at him through narrowed eyes. “If you’ve come to meddle, we’ll let you know there’s nothing in there worth stealing. Only the cow, and the mule, but they’re both tough eating.”

Pelchara laughed, surprised. “Nothing like that, merrem, we assure you. We’re about to camp for the night, and wondered if we might find a warm spot in your barn to sleep in--by your leave, of course.”

The old woman huffed. “Will every vagrant in the country be sleeping in our barn? We suppose at least you’ve done us the courtesy of asking.”

Pelchara’s ears flicked up. “Someone else was here?” he asked, rather less formally than he’d intended.

“Aye, two nights ago. Skinny little creature, all dressed in gray rags. Saw him slipping away an hour after we’d done the milking--he must have been lying there in the shadows while we were in the barn, just waiting for us to leave. Gives us the shudders to think about it.”

Pelchara’s heart pounded. “What sort of a looking fellow was he, merrem? As it happens, we’re looking for a friend of ours, and he may have come this way.”

The old woman scowled. “Couldn’t see much. He had his hood up. But we recall he was dark--very dark--looked half-goblin at least.”

Pelchara took a deep breath, and tried to keep his voice even. “That sounds like him, merrem. He wears a gray cloak, too. He’s a good-hearted little fellow--have no fear--he’s only terribly shy.”

The old woman grunted, but seemed a little appeased. “Tell your friend he’d better come to the door next time like an honest beggar, and not go lurking around scaring the daylights out of folk. You can sleep in the barn,” she added gruffly. “Just don’t go asking for money.”

“Thank you, merrem. We won’t,” siad Pelchara quickly. He bobbed another bow to the old woman, keeping his face clear until she closed the door. Then he pumped his fist at the sky, barely holding back a whoop. His Grace had _certainly_ come this way--was likely in Calestho now, looking for employment or whatever he planned to do there. If Pelchara could catch up in time and somehow find the Archduke in the city…

His shoulders slumped slightly as he considered this task. Calestho, though tiny compared to Ezho, was still a bustling market town of around 10,000 souls, and Pelchara was only one man. Searching on his own, he might well miss the Archduke, or at the very least have trouble persuading him to come home. It would be better to have the advantage of numbers. And here were Osmer Nelar and Haru, two days down the road to the wrong city--and a nasty road it was, too, spotted with thick mud and infested with boars and highwaymen. Pelchara cringed to think of the wasted effort. If only there were some way to call them back…

But there wasn’t. No point in thinking of it. Even if he kept to the main highway and didn’t pass back through Edonis March, he’d never overtake two men on horseback. Especially with as little money as Osmer Nelar had given him--just barely enough to send a courier with news after he’d paid for food and shelter.

So that was what he’d have to do; there was nothing for it. He’d proceed to the city, have a look around. If he couldn’t find His Grace right away, he’d find the couriers’ station and send a message telling the other men to come and help him. If he did find the Archduke, he could send a happier message. Either way, there was nothing in the world he could do to slow those two travelers on their way to Aveio.

With that decided, Pelchara tried to put aside his unease on the subject, and went inside the barn to make his camp.

His steps were lighter the next day, knowing he was walking towards success, and he made good time. Around sunset he came in sight of Calestho’s lights, and he slipped through the gates just before they closed for the night. That done, he sought shelter; there was no point in looking for His Grace tonight, who’d been here two full days and was likely far from the gates by now. Instead, he wandered the side streets until he found an inn dingy enough to fit his purse. A few minutes’ flirting with the landlady--Pelchara dusted off his most winsome smile--and he’d booked himself a week in a shared room at a considerably discounted rate. Hopefully that would be enough to do what needed doing.

If he was honest with himself, Pelchara hadn’t expected to find much sign of the Archduke right away. If the Emperor’s son was clever--and Pelchara was beginning to think he was--then he wouldn’t linger long here. It would be better for him to find a larger town, where people were less likely to notice him. And he had to know he’d be followed from home--it would behoove him to keep out of sight while he was this close to Edonomee.

It was to Pelchara’s considerable surprise, therefore, when he asked the maid idly the next morning if she’d seen a young dark man in gray clothing and was rewarded with a startled, “Oh, yes! The goblin boy!”

Pelchara winced. As little regard as the Emperor had shown thus far shown for his youngest son, an epithet like that would be unlikely to meet with much favor. “He’s a friend,” he said quickly, “a good lad, actually… We were meant to meet up, but as it happened we missed him, and he doesn’t know his way around the city. Did he seem to be doing all right?”

The maid looked oddly guilty. “He was looking for work,” she said, “and then later for a place to sleep. Wanted to ‘earn his bread,’ if you’ll believe it, as if we’d just hire someone off the street for that. End up murdered in our sleep, we would, if we took up any stranger who happened by. Master ran him off, what, two days ago? We’re sorry, if he was your friend,” she added contritely.

Pelchara forced a smile. “We just hope he’s all right,” he said. “We’d better go out and look for him.”

Similar accounts followed him throughout the day. The Archduke, it seemed, had _not_ had the sense to get clear of the gates, at least for some time after arriving here. Shop after shop recalled a little gray figure with a goblin’s face asking diffidently about work. Shop after shop had turned him off--some even boasted about it, saying they’d shown “that gobby bugger” what for. After several such stories, it occurred to Pelchara that Calestho was actually one of the worst places the Archduke could have come to. Likely no city this side of the Empire was more of a bumpkin backwater than this one. Everyone here was pale as milk, and if anyone had Barizheize heritage, they probably took care to hide it. No one was going to trust a sixteen-year-old goblin boy traveling alone. Even were the Archduke free to choose the trajectory of his own life, there wouldn’t be much of a future for him here.

Unfortunately, His Grace had hidden himself _just well enough_ that Pelchara was having the hells’ own time of finding him. He’d put off sending his message to Aveio, hopeful that he might find the Archduke himself without having to wait for the others. Now, after buying a cheap workman’s lunch from an old woman in the town square, Pelchara asked directions from a passerby and started off toward the city’s courier depot.

It was hidden well enough, he thought irritably, weaving through the backstreets. For some reason or other, it seemed the city’s couriers had their headquarters in the neighborhood of a sort of red-light district. He passed house after house of ill-repute--all closed by day, of course, but the signs were clear enough. Pelchara tried to imagine the little Archduke wandering through here, and couldn’t decide if the image was funny or horrifying. He could only hope the whores had left the lad alone.

So many of the windows in this district were dark for day that it was almost a surprise to come across one that wasn’t. A travelers’ inn-- _The Swift Lady_ , its sign named it--and looking clean enough. And, after all, Pelchara had had a long day and deserved a drink. He hesitated only a second before going inside.

The common room was dim, but cozy. A low fire burned in the hearth, and the soot of all its ancestors had muted the green and brown trimming of the room. The air smelled faintly of turnips and beef. The room was empty of guests, but the skinny publican behind the bar looked up and smiled as Pelchara came in. “Looking for a drink, lad?”

“Ale,” Pelchara said, nodding gratefully. “Nothing too dear, if you please, but something with a bit of weight…”

“Oh, we’ve just the thing.” The man drew a generous pint into a pewter mug and handed it to Pelchara. The ale was a rich red-brown, and smelled deliciously clove-y. “Four denari, if you please,” the barman added pleasantly.

Pelchara winced, but paid; he’d been expecting this. “Ah, it’s a hard life you city folk live,” he said plaintively, putting his money pouch away. “Why, where we live it’d only have cost us one, and less than that if the barmaid liked us.”

The publican snorted. “Send your barmaid to Calestho, and we wager she’ll develop a better head for business.” He drew a half-pint for himself, saluted Pelchara cheerfully, and drank. Wiping his mouth, he added, “And what brings you down here, if you find us so uncongenial?”

“Ah, it’s a lovely place, your city,” Pelchara said quickly, “don’t take us wrongly. But we’re only passing through. Looking for a friend of ours, in fact--a half-goblin lad, sixteen years old. We don’t suppose you’ve seen him?”

He’d asked the question automatically, not expecting any particular answer. But to his surprise, the barman straightened, setting down his mug a little too quickly to be casual. “We see a lot of people,” the man said, “travelers passing through--hard to keep one man’s face in our memory, when we’ve only seen him once. Does this friend of yours have a name?”

Pelchara cursed inwardly. Stupid of him not to expect this--of course he should have thought of a name to give out. He couldn’t go shouting _Maia_ , not this close to Edonomee at least. He cleared his throat, thinking. “Benis,” he said after a moment, giving the name of a good-natured regular at the Enonis March tavern. “His name is Benis. But, ah… he may have given a different name. The unfortunate fact is, he’s run away.”

The barman raised his eyebrows. Pelchara couldn’t tell if his information had confirmed anything for the man or not. “We haven’t seen anyone named Benis,” the barman said dryly. “Perhaps you might tell us what other names he’d be going by.”

Again, Pelchara restrained a curse. It was clear his story wasn’t going to work. He debated leaving, not wanting to give too much information away--but it was just as clear his question had rung a bell for the barman, and he couldn’t afford to let a good lead go. At last, defeated, he set his cup down and leaned against the bar. 

“Look,” he said, low and tense and honest, “we’ll be clear with you, mate: it’s not actually a friend we’re looking for. We’re here on behalf of our master, looking for his ward--a young man just as we described, but we can’t tell you his name without giving out secrets that aren’t ours to give. We can tell you, though, that this lad is likely in a lot of trouble all by himself. He’s never been out on his own before. So any information you can give us, you’d be doing us a hell of a favor.”

The barman eyed Pelchara speculatively over the rim of his cup as he took another drink. When he set the cup down, his face was no more forthcoming. “We can’t say as we’ve seen anyone to match that description,” he said. “Faces do run together so, and our hours are long. But we _can_ say, friend, that in these parts a lad of sixteen would be considered old enough to make his own decisions. A _legal adult_ , he’d be called. Though a young one.” Oddly, he blushed at that.

Pelchara sighed. “We’re with you, really. It does seem a shame the poor lad isn’t allowed to make his own choices. But his family’s important, and you know how those highborn ones are--they’d drag him back by the ankles, be he halfway to Barizhan.” And shut him up in that cold house again, with no one to talk to but the four walls and the servants, and Osmer Nelar fit to murder after what the Archduke had put him through… Gods, if Pelchara couldn’t see why the poor fellow had run in the first place.

The barkeeper seemed to have the same thought. “This highborn master of yours,” he said, deceptively casual, “he must have a lovely house, more than enough to keep his ward in good health. One might be tempted to wonder what had led the lad to run.”

Pelchara looked away, sighing. “The same as in most of these cases, we suppose. Our master, he’s not what you’d call a soft touch, and he and the young gentleman have never gotten along. Honestly, we’re more and more surprised he waited this long to cut out.”

“Perhaps,” said the barkeep mildly, “your friend was waiting to be of legal age to do it. The way we see it, as long as he’s not a criminal, this lad has the right to wander the world in whatsoever direction he chooses, for howsoever long he likes, and best of luck to him in finding a place that’s better than the one he came from.” He smiled slightly. “Wherever that may be, and whatever his real name is.”

There wasn’t much for Pelchara to say to that. He finished his pint, thanked the barman for his time, and left The Swift Lady to her quiet shadows.

The courier depot was only a few streets over. Pelchara spent the walk composing his message in his head. Osmer Nelar would be greatly relieved to know the Archduke hadn’t gotten far--but time was certainly of the essence. As Pelchara had seen first-hand, there was little to keep His Grace here in Calestho. If he couldn’t find work, or something else to hold him, odds were he’d be on the road again within the next few days. Pelchara tried to calculate the fastest a message could be expected to reach Osmer Nelar. If it left tonight… but surely it wouldn’t, not at the rates Pelchara could pay. Tomorrow, then; if it left tomorrow, very early in the morning, and took the overland road northeast across the farmland towards Aveio… Would that be forty miles, or fifty? He couldn’t remember. At least a two-days’ ride, then, on a swift horse and with good weather. Any complications would make it three.

But then, a cheap packet like Pelchara would be sending could hardly be given priority by the couriers. The rider would likely make detours--pick up other parcels, take his time about the inns and horse-changes, knock off early in the evenings to avoid robbers. Pelchara certainly would, in their shoes. Considering that, it might take as much as a week for his message to reach Aveio’s courier depot. And then, of course, Osmer Nelar would have to come and ask for it… and then he and Haru would have to make their own trip overland to Calestho. Pelchara’s heart sank as he realized that it might be ten days, perhaps even as much as a fortnight, before his master and Haru were able to make it down here.

His steps quickened as he reached the courier depot. Perhaps they’d have a rider going out tonight, after all. At this rate, even a moment saved would help.

But it was not to be.

“Next _week_ ?” Pelchara stared in complete display at the pimply young man behind the desk. “You’ve _no one_ going out before that? How can it be possible?”

The courier shrugged one-shouldered. He was a stocky fellow, pale and tired-looking, with a bruise about one eye as if he’d run into trouble on the road. “It’s like that sometimes, friend. We’re understaffed, see, and we’ve always got to have someone here to watch the desk. Everybody’s on the road now but us alone--we just got back last night--and we’ve priority rides scheduled to Lohaiso and Sevezho as soon as anyone’s here to take them. Our dispatcher’s covering for two other depots just now, so even he’s gone, and no telling when he’ll be back. Left yesterday on some kind of urgent business before we even got in. So really, mate, unless you want to head down t’market and see if an airship comes through…”

Pelchara laughed helplessly. “We’d grow wings and fly ourself before we could afford airship fare. All right, we’ll… send it with next week’s packet, we suppose.” 

He sighed, exhausted, as the courier went for his ledger. If the man could know how urgent the situation actually was--that the Emperor’s own son was concerned in it--then surely he’d be able to work something out. But Pelchara didn’t want to lose his situation. Nor--no matter what a terror the man was--did ne necessarily want to see Osmer Nelar’s head lopped from his shoulders. Thus, slow and steady it would have to be.

“By the way,” he said, when the courier had taken his money and tucked his letter into a bulging mailbag. “If you were a young man alone, without much money, and you’d come into Calestho for the first time to look for work, where would you go? We’re trying to find someone,” he added, when the courier looked concerned.

“Where would we go?” The other man looked out into the street, where the shadows were lengthening. “Out of Calestho, we expect. Not much to keep anyone here who isn’t from here. Nor much work, either. We doubt your friend would stay long.”

Pelchara sighed. “That’s what we thought. Thank you, friend.” With a salute to the tired courier, he gathered his cloak around him and walked out into the night.

\---

The last three weeks had been very educational for Maia. He had learned, for example, a great deal about horses: how to approach them; how to feed and groom and tend to them; how to lead them about the paddock when they got restless. He had learned how to muck a stall, and how to set a trap for rats. He had learned the most efficient way to draw water from a well, and how to break the crust of ice on a trough so the animals could get a drink even on the bleakest winter morning. He’d learned how to make up a bed in a hayloft, and how to climb a ladder quickly. Occasionally he’d been shown how to tend a fire and stir a pot (though he’d learned a little of that as a child, when he’d haunted Kevo’s kitchen on first coming to Edonomee).

All this he’d learned in a small stable slightly to the east of Calestho, where Mer Breva had taken him the morning after their improbable meeting at The Swift Lady. It was a longstanding arrangement, it seemed, and one that worked out well for both stable and couriers: new-hired couriers who, like Maia, had no experience with horses, would work as unpaid grooms at the stable for a few weeks until they’d learned the basics. In between learning to care for the horses and doing the less-beautiful work that was part of every stable boy’s lot, Maia had been learning how to ride. 

It was the best thing he’d ever been allowed to do.

As it turned out, Maia _loved_ horses. He had not known this about himself before now, but he’d learned it almost immediately upon being introduced to the residents of the stables. These tall, dignified, intelligent beings, with their spindle-strong legs and long serious faces, were without a doubt the most beautiful creatures he’d ever interacted with. And he was allowed to watch them, to pet and coddle them--and to _ride_ them, every single day.

He felt that he could stay here forever, and be happy. If Mer Breva didn’t come back--if he came to his senses, and realized that Maia was the last person anyone should rely on to carry important messages--perhaps the stables would keep Maia on as a groom.

They seemed to like him here. That was perhaps the most surprising thing, after the nastiness of Calestho: the stable owner, his wife, their daughters, and the trainers and grooms, all seemed perfectly pleased to have Maia around. They had even told him--on multiple occasions--that he was doing well. There was none of the distrust his complexion had brought him in the city (and elsewhere throughout his life, if he was honest). They’d acknowledged his difference, of course--a few of the grooms had asked rather tactless questions, or joked about not being able to see Maia at night--but what awkwardness there was seemed to stem from ignorance rather than malice. Maia was allowed to join the grooms when they circled to talk after meals--was included in such jokes as didn’t require long explanations. They showed him how to do their work, and corrected him patiently when he erred. He wasn’t _one_ of them--they’d all been here for years, and knew each other like brothers--but he sensed that with time, he could be.

The trainers seemed to approve of Maia, too. Mer Brazh, who insisted on being addressed by his first name, Talva, although he was ten years Maia’s senior, had repeatedly expressed amazement at the new groom’s progress. “We’ll have you riding at a full gallop in another three weeks,” he’d said yesterday, clapping Maia on the shoulder after he’d dismounted. “Never seen such a beautiful seat on a beginner. Must be that Barizheise blood.”

Maia had blushed and evaded the compliment at the time, but now he couldn’t stop thinking about it. He knew so little about his mother’s family that conjecture had always seemed a waste of time, but here was something _solid_ he could base his suppositions on. If Maia was good at riding--and he didn’t think Talva would lie just to make him feel better--then had he inherited that talent from someone in his family? He knew that Chenelo had loved to ride when she lived in Barizhan and had access to horses. (Gods, Maia was as old now as his mother had been when she had married!) Had she been an expert equestrian, as she’d always told him his grandfather was? Or had she merely been competent?

What must it have been like to grow up in Barizhan? Maia couldn’t help but think he would have been happier there. He knew Chenelo would have been. If only the Emperor could have seen it in his heart to let them go…

He came back to himself to realize his name was being called. “Che- _nel_ -is!” cried a young voice from across the paddocks--one of the other grooms, though at this distance Maia couldn’t tell which. “Che _nel_ is, come _here!”_

Maia abandoned the place where he’d been standing to look across the fields, and trotted back towards the stables, aware of the cold for the first time in many minutes. Winter here seemed a hair lighter than it was at Edonomee, and the buildings were always kept warm. The only time Maia had a chance to feel cold was when he was outside exercising the horses--and at such moments he had much better things to think about.

When he neared the stables, Thalu, one of the other grooms, redirected him towards the house. “That man you came with is here to see you, Nel,” he said. “Has he come to take you away from us?”

Eyes wide, Maia thanked Thalu and hurried off without answering the question. Through the golden windows of the stable owners’ house, he saw Mer Breva sitting at the table, talking to the owner’s wife over a mug of ale. Belatedly, Maia realized that he should have cleaned himself up a bit before coming over here, but there was nothing for it now. He ran his hands quickly through his sweat-damp hair, straightened his clothes, and went inside.

“Chenelis!” Mer Breva looked up with obvious pleasure at seeing him. The man looked tired--he wore riding leathers, like a regular courier, and his face was sun-seared and dirty, though his hair was as neat as it had been before. “We’ve been hearing the most impressive stories about you. Come, let’s have a walk.”

They went outside, and Maia shivered as the cold evening closed over him again. He looked over at the lantern-lit doors of the barn, where the other grooms would be getting the horses settled for the night. He should be there helping them--he hoped Thalu had told the others where he was. “We trust you had a good journey, mer?” he said, before the silence could get awkward. Mer Breva was not one for much conversation.

“Ah, it was all right,” Mer Breva said, smiling. “We did what needed doing, at least for the time being. We’ll have to go out there again before too long, though. In fact,” he added, glancing at Maia, “it’s possible you’ll go with us.”

“To Valno?” said Maia. The dispatcher had spent the last three weeks there, excluding travel time--a punishing round trip of 150 miles. In the early winter winds, the journey must have been brutal--and the weather was only going to get worse. Maia shivered at the realization that such journeys would make up the majority of his life from now on.

Mer Breva was nodding thoughtfully. “There, or perhaps Csedo or Sevezho, once you’re trained--both those depots are desperately short of riders. By any chance, do you speak Barizhin? We recall you took an interest in that book of Barizheise wonder-tales in the riders’ library, and as we recall it was untranslated…”

“Ah… no, mer,” Maia said, embarrassed, “or not properly. Our mother was… was Barizheise.” He swallowed, working past the lump in his throat that always came up when Chenelo was mentioned. “She taught us little things--prayers, greetings, songs--and she would read to us in Barizhin, so a book like that we can read, at least a little.” And in any case, Maia had no intention of giving the book back--it would stay under his pillow for the rest of his natural life if he had anything to do with it. “But our… father… he did not want her speaking it to us, and so we never learned more than a little. We’d dearly like to learn more,” he added wistfully.

“Ah, damn,” Mer Breva said, sighing, “that would have been passing useful. The border cities always have a need for Braizhin speakers--it’d be a great boon if you could learn more. In any case, you won’t be going there right away--things are a little haphazard in this region currently, and it’s not an ideal situation for training new couriers. We’re taking you to Aveio, first, and you’ll stay there until you learn the basics.”

Maia thought, with some amusement, that he might as well have taken the road to Aveio after all, since he was going there now anyway. _But then, hobgoblin_ , said an unkind voice in his mind that sounded vaguely like Setheris, _thou wouldst have died on the road and never made it there. And if thou hadst survived, the couriers in Aveio would never have looked at thee. Without Mer Breva to vouch for thee, thou’rt nothing--forget it not._ “Will we be leaving in the morning?” he asked his employer, a little subdued.

“Yes…” Mer Breva began, and winced. “In fact, though, lad, there’s something we must discuss with you, regarding that. Nothing bad,” he added quickly, seeing Maia’s face fall, “in fact, it’s a good thing. Much better for you than for us,” he added wryly.

Maia frowned. “What do you mean, mer?” It had sounded for a second as if Mer Breva was changing his mind, and yet…

Mer Breva stopped halfway down the walk and leaned against the paddock fence. The darkening sky made his skin look almost as gray as Maia’s, though moonlight gleamed on the white plaits of his hair. “We’ve been listening to reports of your conduct this week,” he said. “You’ve greatly impressed the owners--in fact, it seems you’ve impressed them a bit _too_ much.”

“Too much?” said Maia, startled. “We don’t understand.”

“In short, Mer Tanazh,” Mer Breva said tiredly, “they want to keep you. We’re told you have a rare gift for horses--that they take to you like they will to few other people. Have you been around them before?”

“Only farm horses,” Maia said, bewildered, “just to pet them and give them sweets. We swear we’d never ridden one before.”

“Well, perhaps blood will out,” said Mer Breva wryly. “The Barizheize are well known for their love of horses. Perhaps your ancestors were all great riders. In any case, your trainer seems to think you have great potential, and has asked that you be invited to stay for as long as you like.”

“As a groom?” said Maia. He enjoyed the work, truly, but wasn’t sure he wanted to do it forever.

“At first, certainly, but it sounded as though the trainer had the idea of taking you on as his assistant if things worked out. It seems your work has impressed the people here as much as your horsemanship--you do have a knack for making friends, young man,” the dispatcher said, smiling.

Confused and uncertain, Maia looked out across the paddocks and pastures that had been his home the last three weeks. There was something curiously soothing in the arrangement of fences and stone walls, the quiet whisper of the wind across the snow-covered pastures. But could this be a home truly--or was it just another place to be relegated?

Mer Breva squinted at him for a moment. “What has you gloomy, lad? In fairness, we must tell you this is an excellent offer. They wouldn’t pay you as much as we would, sure, at least not at first--but this has the potential to be a life-long position for you if things work out. Running messages, by contrast, is a young man’s job--your average courier won’t work more than ten or fifteen years at it before moving on to other trades.”

“Or becoming dispatchers,” Maia ventured, feeling bold enough to risk a joke.

Mer Breva grinned. For a moment, he looked much younger. “Just so. A dreadful prospect, indeed. Whereas a good horse trainer, my friend, is worth his weight in sapphires. So think carefully, Mer Tanazh, before you make your answer. Truly, we want to have you with us, but we won’t hold you back from a promising career just out of self-interest. So: would you like to stay here, or will you come on with us to Aveio? In either choice you will have our full support.”

Maia stared up at the sky, willing the stars to advise him on his best prospect. The longer he thought of staying here, the lovelier the idea seemed: a warm bed in the hayloft, the companionship of several boys his age, and the privilege of working with horses as often as he liked. He thought of growing older among people who respected him--of wearing his hair in Talva’s neat, clubbed plait, spending his life in work clothes and sturdy boots. Of being always among people who thought well of him.

It was a deeply tempting prospect. There were, however, a few downsides.

FIrst of all, Maia wasn’t certain it would be _safe_ for him to stay here. He hadn’t gone that far from Edonomee, after all, and was certainly being avidly sought, at the very least by Setheris and the servants. Sure, there was no guarantee that they would come this far--but no guarantee that they wouldn’t, either. It would be better for Maia to be as far away as possible before anyone who knew him took it into their heads to make a thorough search of the countryside around Calestho.

But he had another, more selfish reason for holding to his original plan: quite simply, he wanted to.

He wasn’t sure when the change had come upon him. Leaving Edonomee, he’d wanted only to escape--to get out from under Setheris’ heel, and keep moving until he’d found someplace his guardian wouldn’t look for him. In the last few weeks, however, the world had taken on a new shape, a different aspect. No longer was it a place where other people could come and go as they pleased, while Maia watched from the window and did nothing and became no one. The world was now something that Maia could participate in--and he was eager now to go forth and experience it for himself.

As a courier, he might ride to the far limits of the Empire, and even beyond (hearing so many mentions of his Barizheize heritage had, in fact, sparked a curious desire in him to see Barizhan). As a groom or horse trainer, by contrast, he’d at most be able to move from stable to stable, farm to farm. He found, selfishly, that he wanted to do something a little more exciting… and if the offer was on the table…

“We believe, mer,” he said at last, hoping he was making the right decision, “that we would still like to become a courier.”

In the moonlight, Maia saw Mer Breva’s face relax into a smile. “We’re glad to hear that,” he said. “Gods know we’re dreadfully short-handed at the moment. Very well, young Mer Tanazh, go and pack your things, and get your supper, and get a good night’s sleep. We’ll leave for Aveio in the morning.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the long delay. Thanks so much for reading! <3


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maia meets the Aveio runner-boys.

In the morning, Maia was roused early and fed breakfast, and then Mer Breva gave him a set of riding leathers to change into. “These are just a loan,” he said, helping Maia to adjust the straps and laces so everything sat comfortably and wouldn’t chafe. “You’ll have a different uniform in Aveio while you’re training--they won’t have you in leathers when you’re just running messages about the city. When you’ve finished your training, and are given your first proper posting, then you’ll get a full set of uniforms, as well as the riding leathers.” He frowned as Maia reached for his worn gray cloak. “Hmm, we think you can do better than that cloak, though. Looks like it should have been given up for scraps years ago--is the thing even lined?”

Maia patted the cloak ruefully, feeling an odd pang of sympathy for the garment. “It does well enough. We’ve had it four winters so far. Not beautiful, maybe, but neither are we.” He tried a grin on for size, but found it felt rather stretched.

Mer Breva frowned, at Maia’s tone or his statement or perhaps at the garment itself. “Well,” he said, “be that as it may, it’s not going to be good enough for riding. Here, try this one on.”

He brought out a brown riding cape, a thick woolen garment edged with thick red braid, with hook closures down the front. It was clearly second- or third-hand, but clean and in excellent condition. When Maia put it on, it came down past his knees. 

The dispatcher smiled. “A little large for now, but we wager you’ll be shooting up before long. How feels it?”

“Warm,” said Maia, smiling slowly. “Comfortable. Is this part of the uniform?”

“Not as such,” Mer Breva said, “but most riders wear something similar. In a month or two, you’ll be glad of something to cut the cold--ah, and it looks like our hosts have something else for you.” He turned with a smile to the kitchen door, where the stable owner’s wife was just entering with one of her daughters.

“Ah, that fits him well,” said Merrem Moltavan, who was carrying a large cloth bag. “And we’ve something else for him here, Mer Breva, along with your lunch for today. Here, Chenelis,” she added kindly, pulling a large bundle of red knitting out of her bag. “Put these on.”

The bundle resolved into a thick knitted hood and a voluminous scarf, both made from high-quality wool. Maia had seen other grooms wearing things the stable owner’s wife had made, but he was touched to receive such a gift from a woman who barely knew him. Of course, as he’d only been here three weeks, it was unlikely she’d made the hood and scarf with him specifically in mind. Still, it was a very kind gesture.

“Here, Nel,” said Briu Moltavin, the stable owner’s second daughter. “Put these on, too.” She handed Maia a pair of knitted gloves.

Maia took them, wondering. They weren’t fancy work--Kevo had once made Maia a pair that was much more unique, though sadly he’d outgrown them. These were dark red trimmed with white, and the knitting was what Kevo had called “seed stitch”--pretty, but simple and common enough to work up quickly. In fact, he thought he’d seen Briu working over a pile of knitting in this color in the evenings over the last two weeks, when she and her sister and parents and the grooms and trainers had all sat in the kitchen after supper was done, lingering over gingerbread and tall glasses of strong beer. Though Maia had barely spoken to Briu in all his time here, he’d often seen her looking at him while she worked--which almost certainly meant that these gloves had been made for him and him alone. 

Blushing, he slipped them on, and thanked Briu with his most polite bow as warmth settled over his hands. 

The elf maiden blushed, too. Hers was much more noticeable on her white skin--a delicate flush of pink that spread across her cheekbones as she murmured, “Wear them in good health.”

When the two women had left, Mer Breva gave Maia a look of mingled amusement and dismay. “Oh, no,” he said. “You’re going to be one of _those_.”

“One of what, mer?” said Maia, ducking his head to hide his embarrassment.

Mer Breva rolled his eyes. “Of course he doesn’t know,” he said, almost affectionately. “Well, at least you’ll fit in well with those little hellions up in Aveio. Now, let’s be off, Mer Tanazh. We’ve two long days’ riding ahead of us.”

They took the back lanes from the farm, skirting around Calestho until they reached the broad highway that would take them to Aveio. The weather had continued clear and cold over most of the last three weeks, with only a little snow, and the horses’ stride was brisk and easy.

It was strange to be riding so far overland, when his training had been confined mostly to the back lanes and trails, but Maia found himself relaxing as the first few miles unspooled behind him. His mount was a well-bred mare named Kitten, whose dark coat Talva had described as “seal brown.” Maia had ridden her out on several of his long afternoons of mandated trail-riding, and the two of them got along well. He gave the white blaze on Kitten’s brow an affectionate caress and eased his hips into a more comfortable position, settling in for the long ride.

Then he froze, paralyzed by shock, as he saw another pair of riders approaching from the opposite direction. 

They were both elven men--one slender and refined, clearly a nobleman, while the sturdy man behind him was older and wore a servant’s crop. Their mounts were unremarkable--rented from an ostler somewhere, no doubt--and showed signs of exhaustion, as if the riders had kept their current hard pace for many hours already.

Of course, there was nothing unremarkable about this, either. The lead rider was a man who’d never concerned himself with the suffering of other beings--who considered his own interests paramount, and everyone else’s needs an inconvenience at best. In short, the man was Setheris Nelar.  
  


As the walls of Calestho came slowly into view, Setheris wondered once again if he ought to have taken an airship. Granted, he would have had to leave Haru behind; and granted, even if he only bought one ticket, he’d have had almost no money left for searching once he reached the city. But he’d have had _speed_ \--and in this battle, that might strike the winning blow.

Again he lamented his luck--for surely only bad fortune could explain how poorly the search had gone so far. Two and a half _weeks_ they’d spent searching in Aveio--dealing with unhelpful innkeepers and insolent citizens, waking at dawn each day to go looking and finding less than nothing each time. Setheris had wondered, certainly, whether he and Haru were searching in the wrong location--but Aveio was a city of thirty thousand souls, and two men couldn’t search it properly in a month, much less two weeks.

And then, to come into the couriers’ station and find a letter from Pelchara dated nearly two weeks before… If the gods themselves weren’t helping Maia to evade him, then hell and all its devils must be. Three weeks the brat had been in Calestho now--or, at least, he’d _gotten_ there three weeks ago. Pelchara’s letter had indicated that there was little work to be found in the area, and Maia was nothing if not lazy. If he couldn’t find some kind of situation within a fairly short time, he’d surely be on his way, and Setheris would be without a clue where to look for him.

A clop of approaching hoofbeats drew his attention to two riders coming from the opposite direction. Couriers, they looked like, in their scandalous leathers--one an elf, cool and placid despite his mount’s swift pace, and the other a dark-skinned fellow too wrapped in red woolens for his features to be visible. Setheris drew his mount slightly to the side, and heard Haru behind him do the same. The couriers swept by them like a red-tinged wind, leaving the road behind them empty.

The image of the two couriers stayed in Setheris’ head as he approached the city gates. The second rider had looked oddly like Maia, from what little Setheris had seen of him--something about the set of his shoulders, perhaps, as well as his slender build. Of course, Maia had never ridden a horse in his life as far as Setheris knew, and wouldn’t have had the resources to get one if he’d suddenly developed the talent. Wherever the boy was going, he’d be on foot.

Behind him, Haru let out a stifled groan. Likely the groundskeeper had no more experience riding than Maia did. No doubt the last few weeks had been very hard for him. 

Setheris lacked the energy to muster any sympathy.

He spurred his horse onward, wringing the last drops of energy from the tired beast, and swept into the city with a bare nod to the gatekeepers outside. They’d find Pelchara first, see what progress he’d made in the abominably long time since the letter was sent, and then… they’d see what they would see.

Six days later, Setheris Nelar knew that his doom was coming. He slumped in his seat at the table in the rathole tavern where Pelchara had found them rooms, and resisted the urge to brain himself against his mug of ale. “Well,” he said, staring into the amber depths of that questionable liquid. “If it was revenge our cousin wanted, he’ll certainly have it forthwith. Do you suppose the Emperor will have our head alone, gentlemen, or will he ask for yours as well?”

Pelchara winced. Across from him, Haru stared morosely at his empty plate. The poor old fool seemed more concerned about Maia than himself--though, to be fair, unless Varenechibel was feeling very cruel indeed, the groundskeeper’s gray head was probably safe. Pelchara’s, too, although the whole of Edonomee’s small staff was likely to face dismissal, at the very least, when the truth was revealed.

Setheris sighed. All his rage had been burned out of him--it had been a month, now, that they’d been seeking his restless ward; and though his temper had flared again and again in that time, each flare had been weaker than the one before. Maia was gone. The gods knew where he’d hidden himself--or whether he was even still alive--but it was out of Setheris’ hands now. The three of them had combed every inch of the city--had even started interviewing people at the outlying farms--but despite what Pelchara had heard in his first few days here, any trail Maia might have left had dried up. Setheris lacked the connections, and the financial resources, to go seeking it any farther afield. The longer they delayed, the further away from them the child got--it would take Imperial resources to have any hope of finding him again.

So Setheris would tell the Emperor that he had lost his son; and then Setheris would be imprisoned, and likely Setheris would die. He’d known all along that this was a probability, but had managed to stave off accepting that knowledge through more and more desperate efforts to find the child himself. It had been a gambit--and that gambit had failed.

And now the time had come to pay his forfeit.

Setheris stood, and quickly drained the rest of his ale. “We’ll be off, then,” he said, smiling bitterly at his servants. “Time to confess all to His Serenity so the soldiers can be called out. The two of you will have to make your way back on your own--we haven’t the coin left to afford you horses. Ourself, we must go down to the market and see about purchasing an airship ticket. If you see our cousin…” Setheris searched for something suitably scathing to say, but felt only tired--all of his former hatred for his cousin lay like wet ashes in the bottom of his heart. He found, suddenly, that he didn’t care at all what the boy was doing. “Tell him he’s won,” he said sardonically. “Tell him he’s won, and convey our salutations. May he have joy in his victory--it’s certainly come at a dear enough price for the rest of us.”  
  


It was late afternoon, two days after they’d left Calestho, when Maia and Mer Breva rode through the gates of Aveio. Here, no one stopped them, and Maia thought they wouldn’t have even if he’d been alone. Aveio was a much larger city than Calestho, and the guards at the crowded gates had too much to do to bother harassing individual travelers.

With skills that were becoming more natural to him with each day on the road, Maia guided Kitten through the streets, keeping as close as he dared to his employer’s tall bay gelding for fear of becoming separated. All the streets were stone here, and the houses, too--and all that stone seemed to learn over him like a crowd of disapproving relatives, making it difficult to make out the individual contours of the city. Maia wondered how he’d ever be able to find his way around here, when he already felt lost just looking at the place.

Fortunately, the couriers’ station wasn’t too far from the gates. Like the city, it was massive--a great crag of gray stone, smooth with time and pocked with windows. Maia knew little enough of architecture, but he guessed that the building must be at least several hundred years old. He guessed, too, that it must house other services besides the couriers, but those who came and went through its studded red door were moving too quickly for Maia to study their livery.

Mer Breva led him around to the back of the building, where Maia was surprised and impressed to find a small stable occupying most of the ground floor. It shared space with a bakery on one side and a pie shop on the other--odd neighbors, given the impressive smell of manure, but perhaps the rent was cheap. At any rate, both seemed popular; and among the tradesmen having lunch and the housewives buying bread, Maia spotted a number of young men and boys dressed in couriers’ leathers or bright red livery.

He tugged at the straps of his own borrowed leathers beneath the edge of his traveling cloak. What would his new colleagues think of him, their new interloper, when he was introduced?

“Come along, Nel,” said Mer Breva, beckoning him into the stables; and for some time Maia was distracted from his worries by the familiar labor of caring for his horse. This stable was much smaller than the one he’d just come from, and there was considerably less room to work, but the familiar warm stink of hay, horse, and manure still settled over him like a second cloak. He took his time rubbing Kitten down, humming as he worked, and stood a long time stroking her long dear face as Mer Breva worked out some arrangement with the stablemaster. After today, Maia knew, it was unlikely he’d see the horse again--another rider would be taking her out as soon as she was rested.

Indeed, men had been coming and going the whole time he and Mer Breva had been in the stable. Lean leather-clad figures, each with his cape and hood and worn travel bag, they’d presented tokens to the stablemaster and taken the mounts away one by one, leading their horses to the street and vaulting into the saddles as smoothly as birds taking flight. Other riders came in to replace them, travel-stained and weary, tending to their mounts and settling with the stablemaster as Maia and Mer Breva had just done. None of them spared Maia a second glance. It was nice, he thought dazedly, to be so invisible for once.

Eventually, Mer Breva finished his conversation with the stablemaster, and he beckoned for Maia to follow him. The route they followed through the stone corridors of the building was twisting and impossible to remember. Maia hoped that he would not soon be called upon to find his way back out again.

Here, they drew more looks. Boys in red coats, Maia’s age and younger, turned on their heels in the hallways to look after him and Mer Breva as they passed. Maids in plain gowns paused in their work to look Maia up and down, their neutral faces giving now indication of what impression he’d made.

Eventually, Mer Breva stopped outside a plain wooden door at the end of a long corridor on the third floor. He knocked briskly on the door. A long moment passed, and then a man’s sullen voice bade them enter.

The room beyond was a cramped and stifling office hung with old red tapestries. A man lounged behind a desk--Mer Breva’s age or slightly older, Maia thought, though at first his posture had made him look younger. He was exceptionally pale, and his elf-white skin and flaxen hair gleamed against the bloody hue of the fabric behind him. He nodded briefly at Mer Breva, then squinted at Maia. “Well, Shalis,” he said dryly, “brought us more trouble, have you?”

Mer Breva was a man who guarded his emotions exceptionally well. Even so, Maia thought he saw his employer stiffen very slightly. “You said you were short-handed,” Mer Breva said.

The man behind the desk snorted. “Aye, we had to send away that little whore Tulis. Stirring up trouble, and distracting all the others from their work. Then two more of them ran off last week--in protest, we suppose--and we’re quite starved for runners now.” He squinted again at Maia. “But this one looks like he’ll be more of the same.”

Mer Breva half-turned toward Maia. For a moment, Maia had the odd impression that the dispatcher wanted to scoop him up and carry him back out again. After a moment, though, he said, “We assure you, Mer Tanazh has our full confidence. His conduct and work ethic are both so excellent that the stable at Calestho tried to steal him away from us. In fact,” he added--as mildly as ever, but perhaps with a hint of archness--”we’re only lending him to you, ourself, just long enough for him to learn the basic delivery protocols. A month, perhaps; maybe two, depending on how long it takes us to find his next posting. So have no fear, Jeru: you need look for no _trouble_ from this one.”

The other dispatcher snorted again. “Well, boy?” he said, barely glancing at Maia. “Introduce thyself.”

For a moment, Maia was so startled by the familiar tone of the address that he could not speak. Had Setheris followed him here--crept along the road before him, taken the form of a couriers’ dispatcher and planted himself behind this desk to rob Maia of his breath and confidence? It was several seconds before Maia could manage a shaky bow, and say without faltering, “Chenelis Tanazh, mer, at your service.”

“ _Another_ Chenelis?” The man rolled his eyes. “Thou art the third we’ve had this year. Truly, the Barizheise are poor in imagination when it comes to the naming of their children. Well, _Chenelis_ , we are Jeru Nathar, and thou’lt be under our command as long as thou’rt here. Canst thou read?”

“Yes, mer,” Maia said, suppressing his irritation at the dispatcher’s rudeness--and his relief at learning that the false name he’d chosen for himself was apparently not distinctive in the least. “And write, as well.”

Mer Nathar nodded briskly. “Saddle a horse?”

“Yes, mer.”

“Then we have no need to speak with thee longer.” Mer Nathar pulled a fraying silk cord behind his desk, and a bell rang somewhere nearby. “Thou’lt be in Osu’s charge, and he’ll tell thee the way of things--we see no reason why thou canst not start running deliveries today, in company with the rest of the little vipers.” He laughed at Mer Breva’s noise of protest. “Not everyone coddles their riders and runners as you do, Shalis. In fact, we seem to recall you _have_ no runners down in little Calestho--just little bumpkin boys you hire and pay by the message. Do a turn here, and deal with what we must deal with, and then--”

The door opened. Maia turned, and saw a short, thin elvish boy in well-kept red livery looking him up and down. Large silver hoops glinted from the boy’s ears. His hair was elaborately coiffed--though Maia judged him about a year shy of technical adulthood--and there was an odd smoky tinge about his eyes, a shimmer on his skin, a redness to his lips that could not be quite natural.

The boy caught him looking, and winked. “New blood?” he said, barely glancing at Mer Nathar though he was clearly speaking to him. “Good, we can use him.”

“This is Mer Tanazh.” For all his show of disinterest, Mer Nathar clearly had no trouble retaining key details. “He’s here temporarily to learn the system. He’s to go with thee on thy rounds this afternoon--and afterward until I tell thee otherwise. Show him how to manage the office work, as well--whatever little skill thou hast, endeavor to pass it on.”

Mer Breva made another stifled sound, as if he wanted to speak but wasn’t sure it was worth the effort. However, the boy only rolled his eyes, and smiled at Maia. “Come with us, then, Tanazh, and we’ll get thee started.”

About to follow him, Maia paused to look once more at Mer Breva. He owed the man so much--and regarded him so highly--that it seemed wrong to go off without some sort of proper farewell. But under Mer Nathar’s sneering gaze, he couldn’t seem to think of any words that wouldn’t sound foolish.

Mer Breva caught his helpless look, and smiled kindly, seeming to know what he was thinking. “We’ll be back for you, Nel, or send another rider to fetch you, as soon as we have a posting for you. We believe,” he added pointedly, glancing at Mer Nathar, “that Aveio has a full complement of riders?”

“Oh, we’re well enough for now,” Mer Nathar said, waving dismissively, “though that may change--they’re very nearly as flighty as the runners. If you must be foisting your inexperienced greenlings off on us for training, you’d do as well to leave them with us after, for we can surely make use of them.” He glanced distastefully at Maia, who lowered his eyes to his shoes. “However,” Mer Nathar continued, “we suppose you’ve finder's rights, Shalis, and so we’ll not object to your taking the boy away again when he’s trained.”

“Very kind,” Mer Breva said blandly, with perhaps a hint of stifled amusement. “Well, Nel, we’ll be seeing you again one way or another, so it’s only goodbye for now.” He clapped his slim, warm hand on Maia’ shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. “We look forward to hearing how you fare,” he said, more quietly. “We trust you’ll continue to justify our faith in you.” With another squeeze, he let Maia go. “Chin up now, lad. Off to your duties.”

“Yes, mer,” Maia said, as steadily as he could. “Fare you well.” He bowed, forcing himself to smile, and was just able to glimpse his master’s returning smile before his new colleague dragged him from the room by the elbow.

For the first few seconds, following the courier boy down the long dingy corridor, Maia was occupied in swallowing back an appalling rush of tears. It was only shock, he told himself--too many changes of home, of station--too many friendly faces lost just as they began to be familiar. And he was tired--two days’ riding, and off he went to work without a moment’s rest afterward. Perhaps that was a courier’s life, though. In any case, he was not some baby, to snivel when his guardian left him behind. With an effort of will, and a few deep breaths, he managed to raise dry eyes to his companion just as the other boy said brightly, 

“So, thy name is Nel, then?”

“Chenelis,” said Maia automatically, “but, ah, yes, people call me Nel.” It was a relief slipping back into the informal, though this boy Osu was a total stranger to him. He’d always spoken thus at Edonomee, and had even begun to drop formality with a few of the boys at the stable. Perhaps common-born children didn’t stand on as much ceremony in general as the aristocracy did. Maia had too little experience with them--with children of any status--to know for certain.

The boy looked him up and down as they walked. “Well, Nel, the first thing we must do is get thee looking respectable. Camest from Calestho, didst thou not?” 

“Ah… yes,” said Maia, wrong-footed. “From a stable near there--we--I was learning to ride--”

“Aye, thou lookest like a stable-boy in courier leathers, with thy hair all clubbed up like that!” He laughed as Maia self-consciously touched the groom’s clubbed braid he’d taken to wearing in the last few weeks. “Never fear, though, we’ll soon have thee looking more proper. Else I can’t be seen with thee.” He grinned, and Maia had to suppose that he was at least partly joking.

“Thy… thy name is Osu, isn’t it?” he said, at a loss for any other response.

His guide nodded. “Ah, so Jeru introduced me? I’d wondered if he bothered. He was in a fine frame of mind today, was he not? He’s been like that since that business with Tulis. And, of course, Eiver and Hanis decided they’d had enough and ran off--so you’re sorely needed, my friend, and we’re glad to have you, whatever His Grace might say.”

“His… Grace?” Here Maia had to catch his breath--and his feet--as Osu led him rapidly through a doorway and up a spiral flight of stairs into the garret of the building. Revealed here was a long, narrow corridor, with doors on either side, and through each door a messy room crowded with narrow beds and discarded clothing.

Osu led Maia to a room at the end of the hall. Inside were six beds, all unmade, and a rough wooden table with basins and ewers ranged across it. Osu dropped Maia’s arm and hurried to the table, where he weighed each ewer until he found one that sloshed. “Come wash,” he said, “quickly, and I’ll find thee a uniform.”

Maia obeyed. The basins and ewers were all of dark stoneware, painted with garish flowers, and the water (when he poured it into a the bowl, which seemed clean) was chilly, but tolerable. The room itself, in fact, was warmer than Maia would have expected given the season, and so he did not hesitate in stripping to the waist, glad to be out of his sweat-fouled shirt and leather jacket. He found a bar of dark soap in a crockery dish, and a dwindled stack of washrags on a corner of the table. Hoping that they were at least somewhat clean--for they had not been stacked over-neatly--Maia lathered up a cloth and quickly began to wash.

Osu returned very shortly. Turning, Maia found the other boy looking him over with a degree of frank speculation that made him blush. He toweled off quickly, setting the cloth down just in time to catch the shirt and padded jacket Osu threw at him.

“Thou lookest well in red,” said Osu admiringly, as Maia fastened the closures of the crimson jacket over its white linen undershirt. “And that fits thee well, too--thou'rt of a height with Tulis, I guess. Canst wear those trousers for now--we’ll find thee others later. And now, thy hair…” He frowned, turning aside. “Parva! Thou lazy lump, wake up and help us.”

To Maia’s surprise, a pile of blankets on one of the beds in the corner began to shift, revealing a second elven boy who looked about his own age. The boy sat up, blinking and rubbing his face, as if he’d been dragged out of a deep dream. He looked surprised to see Maia, but nodded amiably enough after he’d finished yawning. “Hello. Art thou our new runner?”

“This is Nel,” Osu said impatiently. “He’s come to us from a _stable_ , Parva! Only look at his hair--what are we to do?.”

The boy, Parva, glanced at Maia’s hair, and then rolled his eyes at Osu. “Thou wokest me for this emergency? He’ll not soon die of having unfashionable hair.”

“But thou must help him! Thou arrangest Rever’s hair from time to time, does thou not? And he always looks well, when thou art with him. So thou must fix Nel’s, as well, so he won't shame us on rounds tonight.”

Maia’s hand went self-consciously to his thick clubbed-under plait. It had looked well enough in the glass at the inn that morning, and Mer Breva had said nothing about it, but perhaps he had only wanted to be kind…

Parva saw the gesture, and glared at Osu. “Mind thy tongue! He won’t ‘shame’ us, neither. Thou worriest overmuch about the arrangement of hair, when thou hadst better give a care to the arrangement of thy words.”

“ _Oh_ , very clever.” Osu rolled his eyes. “Fine; I am a churl--but don’t be tiresome, Parva! Surely thou canst do something.”

Parva looked Maia’s hair over speculatively. He reached out as if to touch it, then paused with his hand in midair. “Is it all right if I meddle with thy hair?” he said to Maia, quite gently. “Only with thy permission, of course.”

“All… all right.” Maia allowed himself to be led to one of the beds and made to sit down. It took all his energy to suppress the thrill of shock he felt at the touch of someone else’s fingers in his hair--the first in seven years, the first since Chenelo had died. He shivered as Parva’s clever fingers loosed the ribbon that had bound his hair, and quickly but gently unraveled the thick plait, and separated out the strands into rippling curls that curtained Maia’s back to well below his waist.

Parva gasped softly. “Oh, what a glory!” he said, running his hand very lightly over the length of Maia’s hair. “Thou lookest like a nobleman, Nel--I’ve never seen such beautiful hair! How didst thou grow it so long?”

Maia shivered again as the other boy began to divide his hair into thick sections. “We… don’t know? I mean… I simply never cut it, I suppose.”

“Thou must do something more than that,” said Osu, rather sullenly. He had perched on a nearby bed and was watching the proceedings with apparent envy. “I’ve been trying to grow mine out for years, and it breaks off before it grows half that long! Dost put something on it at night?”

Maia shook his head, uncomfortable. “No… only knot it up, or braid it. We--I only recently turned sixteen,” he added, remembering Osu’s elaborate coif. “I’ve never had cause to do much with it before.”

Parva snorted softly. Osu’s snort was louder. “Thy parents must be terribly strict,” he said, “if they care for such things as when thou puttest up thy hair. I haven’t worn a child’s knot since I was ten!”

“Is that why thy face is bare?” Parva was weaving the coiled strands of Maia’s hair together in some complicated pattern Maia knew would be entirely beyond him to reproduce. “Thy parents wouldn’t have thee coloring up thy skin?”

Maia winced. “The subject never came up,” he said, “but I don’t suppose my guardian would have liked it. I… lived very far from the city, and no one there really wore such things, not even the women.”

“Ah, then that explains the stables,” said Osu, though it really didn’t. “Well, Nel, don’t worry--I’m the best person you could have come to! I’ll soon have thee looking beautiful.”

He went to a small chest by one of the beds and rummaged around inside as Parva continued to work with Maia’s hair. When he returned, he held a small wooden casket, which he opened to reveal a variety of tiny cases and bottles.

“Thou must get thine own stuff eventually,” Osu said, sorting among the contents of his box, “as it’s too expensive for me to share all of mine with thee, but no need to worry for today.” He opened a little tin case and frowned at the white powder inside. “Not that thou canst wear most of what I have. Perhaps a bit of vermilion…?”

“Not on his cheeks,” Parva said, tugging firmly at Maia’s hair. “Try a little on his lips. And hast thou kohl?”

“As thou seest.” Osu gestured at his oddly shadowy eyes.

“Then line his eyes with that, and—”

“And then the vermilion, and a bit of shimmerscale, obviously.” Osu fished another tiny case from his box, and unscrewed its lid to reveal a small quantity of deep red paste. He slipped a dainty brush from a clever indentation in the side of the case, turned it this way and that as if checking for dirt, and dipped it into the pot of vermilion. “Here, Nel, make as if thou wert going to kiss me.”

Blushing, Maia pursed his lips. The touch of the brush on his mouth was exceedingly strange--cool and wet and whiskery, tracing the contours of his lips in an uncomfortably intimate way. It seemed as if Osu were putting on rather a lot of vermilion, but Maia supposed the other boy knew what he was doing.

“Didst see him when thou toldest him to feign kissing thee?” Behind Maia, Parva snorted, though his hands in Maia’s hair were as smooth and gentle as ever. “Thou hast terrified him already. He froze up as if he’d just just trodden on a viper.”

Osu grinned, eyes still fixed on Maia’s mouth as he filled in the vermilion outline with the laden brush. “Ah, poor Nel. Art not of the kindred?”

“The… what?” Maia said, bewildered.

Osu’s grin grew wide and wicked. “The kindred! Dost prefer thy fruit soft, or firm?”

Parva made a choked noise, as if swallowing laughter. Maia’s confusion grew. “I… suppose I have no preference,” he said. Fruit had been relatively rare in cold Edonomee, and he hadn’t eaten enough of it to develop a preference. “Apples, or quinces, or plums… I’m quite fond of gooseberries…” He stopped speaking as the other boys began to laugh.

“No, Nel!” Osu dropped the vermilion back into the box, and made an evocative squeezing gesture with one hand. “Dost prefer the _soft_ fruit?” He began to lower his hand towards his groin. “Or the—”

“Osu!” Parva released Maia’s hair with one hand and reached over Maia’s shoulder to smack Osu lightly on the arm. “Don’t be disgusting.”

Osu dropped his hand, still smiling, but there was a hint of real seriousness--even of caution--in the set of his sharp painted face. His strange question about fruit, whatever he had meant by it, had clearly held real significance. Maia took a few moments to process the words and gestures, and realized with a deepening blush that the other boy had been asking whether he was marnis. 

“I think he gets it now,” said Parva, leaning forward to look at Maia’s face. “Well, Nel? Dost want to change thine answer, now that thou knowest what our vulgar friend was talking about?”

Parva, too, showed tension behind his smile. Maia remembered the rumors he’d heard about couriers from Setheris and the servants at Edonomee: that many of them were marnis, and that all of them were quick to lie with clients or with each other or whoever else asked them whenever the mood struck. He suspected those stories were mostly exaggeration. However, it did make sense that young men who would usually be outcasts--marnei, for example--would be attracted to a job where they were not forced to assimilate themselves into any one community. It was likely, he concluded, that marnei were at least much more common among the couriers than they would be elsewhere.

He realized that he hadn’t answered Parva’s question. He opened his mouth to confirm that he only liked women… but honesty compelled him to pause. Was it really true? 

That he _did_ like women was indisputable. He’d spent whole hours at Edonomee surreptitiously watching Aäno at her work--the flexing of the housemaid’s waist, the shifting of her slender hips, the bobbing of her breasts. Memories of those moments had made appearances in some of his more distinctive dreams. So he certainly couldn’t call himself marnis, at least as he understood the word.

But at Edonomee, he had also watched Pelchara. The footman had never been much in his path--being three years older and clearly not much interested in Maia--but it would have been difficult not to notice the quick cutting grace of the young man’s movements, the odd throatiness of his voice, the beautiful balance of his hands. Those images had shown up in Maia’s dreams, too. And Pelchara, despite his small stature, had always been unambiguously masculine. Then there had been the grooms at the stable, several of whom--showing their figures off to great advantage in the course of their daily work--had been very much on Maia’s mind there. 

But then again, at that same stable, there had been pretty, blushing Briu Moltavin, who had knitted him a pair of gloves to keep his hands warm. Maia had not thought much about the stable owners’ daughter in the course of his work there, but he’d thought a great deal about her after that.

And now here were these two boys--one before him and one behind--tugging gently at his hair and painting his lips with a cool wet brush. Maia was by no means unmoved by this--in fact, he was beginning to feel moved by it to a very embarrassing degree.

“I think,” he said at last, shifting to resettle himself and grateful for the generous cut of his new jacket, “that I should probably leave my answer as it is. I… haven’t had much time to think about it before,” he clarified, lowering his eyes, “but really… I’m not sure I could choose, one or the other.”

He felt Parva relax behind him, and the runner’s hands resumed their smooth, practiced motions in his hair.

“That’s all right, then,” said, Osu, with a more genuine grin. “At least thou’lt be better than Ardis--always wanting us to listen to him go on about this or that woman he’s smitten with. Or the others,” he added, a little darkly, glancing at the beds at the far end of the room. “No better than Jeru, some of them. Though, come to think of it, I don’t guess _he_ has a preference, either…” He glanced back at Maia, and a wicked gleam came into his eyes. “Say, Nel…”

“Don’t even _joke_ about that,” said Parva, firmly enough to end whatever line of conversation Osu had meant to open. “There, Nel, that’s thee finished. Give him a glass, Osu.”

The younger boy, after a bit of rummaging, produced a small round mirror of polished tin, which he angled so Maia could see himself. At the sight, Maia had to suppress a gasp. Vermilion lips, kohl-lined eyes, and a dusting around his eyes and cheekbones of some silvery powder from one of Osu’s little cases--he looked like a little painted ebony doll Chenelo had once kept on her dressing table, which she’d often let him look at and play with until she’d died and it had been burned with the rest of her things. 

“Here, let me see,” said Parva, interrupting Maia’s thoughts. He leaned around to look at Maia face-on. “Oh, well done, Osu. That’s much better. And here, Nel, look: what dost think of thy hair?”

Maia tilted his head this way and that to see. His hair had been pulled back from his face in a number of fat braids, twined and coiled into a massive pile on the back of his head, and held in place with a pair of long brass hairpins. Though elegant, the arrangement looked precarious. However, when Maia gave his head a cautious shake, his hair didn’t budge even slightly.

"Thank you,” he said, awestruck. He turned to the other boys, wide-eyed. “I… didn’t know I could look like that.”

“Thou’rt welcome!” said Osu cheerfully, as Parva gave Maia’s shoulder a friendly pat. “Now: hast no earrings besides those awful reeds? We really must be going.”

Maia thought of Chenelo’s earrings, bundled safe into the bottom of his bag. This really didn’t seem like the time and place to bring them out. He slowly shook his head, feeling a bit guilty about the deception but unable to bring himself to risk losing his treasure.

With a huff of exasperation, Osu dove for his night table once more. Parva snorted. “Thou’lt need to go shopping, once thou hast a bit of cash. Need'st tashin sticks, at least, and a bit of paint wouldn’t go amiss. I can ask Rever what he buys, if thou likest,” he added, a little shyly. “He’s my… friend, and his skin is a little like thine, if somewhat darker.”

“Of course!” said Maia, suppressing his excitement--so there were goblin folk here, as well as elven! “That would be very kind--I thank thee. And thanks, also, for putting up my hair--no one’s done that for me since my mother died.”

“Oh! It was nothing,” Parva said, looking rather touched. “It’s only what I could do in a few minutes. Give me an hour or so and I can really make something with it.”

“Here!” Osu emerged from his rummagings triumphant, holding aloft a pair of polished bronze hoops. “Put these on, Nel, and we’ll be off. Thou’lt have to give them back eventually, but I haven’t worn them in ages, so I don’t mind thee borrowing them.”

“Thank you,” Maia said gravely. He slipped the spacers from the piercings in his earlobes and carefully accepted the hoops. It took him a moment to figure out how to open and close them, but with Osu holding the mirror for him he had them on in a minute.

The hoops were about the width of his thumb and forefinger circled, and though they weren’t as large as Osu’s, they were quite heavy. They brushed against Maia’s neck as he turned his head, and seemed to have their own buoyant gravity. They were going to be very distracting, he thought ruefully, along with the weight of his hair now shifted to the back of his head. Hopefully he would be able to get used to it.

Looking in the mirror, though, he was stunned by the change the earrings made in his appearance. Their bright flashes against his dark skin--their smooth golden curves against the sharp lines of his face--made him look almost… elegant. Interesting. Beautiful, even.

Maia ducked his head slightly, turning from the mirror. He knew it was only the makeup and hairstyle and earrings that made him feel that way. Without those things, he was as plain and unglamorous as he’d ever been. Still, it was a heady feeling, to look in the mirror and see someone worth talking to.

The door to the dormitory swung open, then, and another elven boy came in. He was taller and broader than Osu and Parva, and looked to be about Maia’s age. He wore the same uniform as they did, and his eyes were lightly lined with kohl. “Hey, lumps,” he said cheerfully, “you’d best get downstairs and get your bags, or you’ll end up running messages out to Goatbrook again. Hello!” he added, seeing Maia. “Who’s this?” 

“Our new runner,” said Osu, standing. “Nel, this is Ardis. Ardis, Chenelis. He’ll be coming with us today, and likely for a while after. And thee--art thou with us?”

“Naturally,” Ardis said, “and let’s to the Merry Sisters after--I want a drink. Come, stop primping yourselves, and let’s be off!”

The boys shrugged into cloaks and capes and scarves, all leaving their wraps open enough that their red uniforms were clearly visible. Osu hid Maia’s bag under a pile of blankets and pillows on his bed, muttering about thieves, and the four boys ran down the spiral stairs and through the corridors until they came to a room with a large table laden with bulging sacks, each filled with letters and packages. The bored-looking man behind the table took their names down--barely glancing twice at Maia when he gave his--and handed them four sacks. These the boys carried into another room, where they spread the letters unceremoniously out across the floor.

“What are we doing?” said Maia, bewildered, following the others’ example though he couldn’t tell why.

“Sorting by sector,” Parva said. He took a letter from Maia’s pile and replaced it with one of his own. “We work in pairs or groups, usually, when we run in the evening--the city’s a bit dangerous otherwise, and it goes faster if you work together. But first we have to know where we’ll be running to so we can plan our routes.”

“Lots in Little Bend tonight--that’s lucky,” Osu said, indicating a growing pile of letters. “We should be able to lump those together easily. We _will_ have to go out to Goatbrook, though, unless we can find someone else to take this.” He held up another letter.

Ardis groaned. “Ah, well, we’ll manage,” he said. “That road’s quite near the Sisters, anyway--let’s leave it for last and get our drinks on the way back.”

When the messages had been redistributed according to some arcane system of the other boys’ devising, Ardis led them out of the building and into the city. They didn’t quite run, but kept a swift pace, and Maia was soon glad he’d spent the last three weeks doing physical labor. He was very conscious, however, of the long journey on horseback he’d only finished that afternoon, and by the time the others paused to plan out their first round of deliveries, he wondered how long he’d be able to keep moving. 

Still, it was interesting watching the others work. They’d told him only to observe at first, and he took careful note of their words and manners as they delivered each letter to its recipient.

Their level of formality seemed to depend strongly on the wealth of the houses they visited. At simple places, where the master or mistress of the house often opened the door in person, a simple “Delivery for you, merrem” and a small bob of the head seemed to suffice. Generally these homes sent them on their way with a denar or two for their troubles, which Osu always dropped into a single bag he carried at his hip. Sometimes there was no money, but the homeowner generally apologized, and instead sent the runner away with a tart or a bit of bread and cheese.

At wealthier houses, the protocol was different. Whichever runner was assigned the delivery would knock gravely on the door, wait for a maid or manservant to open it, and perform a neat bow of the type Chenelo had taught Maia to give when he finished reciting his lessons. The names of the recipient and sender were read aloud--practically declaimed--and the courier would hand over the letter with another, deeper bow. This performance generally ended in a much larger tip--sometimes three or four denari, once even five.

This elaborate process at first quite terrified Maia, who feared he would break some unspoken rule of etiquette and be thrown out of the courier corps before he’d even really started working for them. However, once he had tried a few deliveries on his own, he found that the procedure at wealthier houses was almost comforting in its formality. Much more comforting, anyway, than having to make small talk with one total stranger after another. 

At some of these great houses, however, their reception was more familiar. Once, horrifyingly, a maid who apparently knew Osu in some unspecified way took one look at Maia and _whistled._ “He’s a pretty one, isn’t he?” she said to Osu, rummaging in a basket for spare coins. “Jeru’s found himself a new toy, then?”

Maia’s jaw dropped. He drew himself up to defend himself--though what he would have said he couldn’t guess--but Osu beat him to it. 

“Don’t _say_ things like that, Nathiran! Joking is one thing…”

“I left so I _could_ say things like that,” retorted the maid, passing Osu a small handful of denari. “If he doesn’t know to--”

“We’ll warn him,” Osu said quickly, glancing rather guiltily at Maia. “But don’t scare him away yet--we only got him this afternoon!”

“Let’s hope you can keep him,” the maid muttered darkly. “How long was Tuils there before—”

“ _Lovely_ to see thee, Nathiran.” Osu grabbed Maia’s arm and dragged him away from the house before the maid could speak any further.

“Warn me about _what_?” Maia hissed, as the two of them hurried to meet their fellows at the other end of the quiet street. (This place was much cleaner than Calestho, with cobbles that were often swept clear. Maia was well enough traveled now, though, to know that other parts of the city were likely not so appealing.)

“Oh…” The other boy avoided his eyes. “Just… Jeru has a bit of an eye for… well, pretty people. Men and women--he’s not particular. It’s why Tulis left--Jeru wouldn’t leave him alone, and I suppose he couldn’t take it anymore. Nathiran, too--she used to be our maid before she quit and went to work for Mer Astivar. Though we think she mostly left in solidarity with a friend of hers whom Jeru also used to… bother.”

“So he… _interferes_ with people?” Maia said, horrorstruck. He recalled occasional comments Setheris had made about noblemen he’d known back at court who couldn’t keep their hands off their servants. It had never occurred to Maia that he might one day encounter such a person himself.

Osu laughed raucously. “‘ _Interferes_ with’! Thou speakest like my grandmother.” He turned his grin towards Parva and Ardis, who were coming to meet them. “Hey, lads, Nathiran gave us seven denari! We might manage something better than one beer each tonight.”

Though he was still deeply unsettled by what Osu had said, Maia allowed the topic to drop for the moment. “They pay quite a lot, these bigger houses,” he said.

Ardis snorted. “It seems so, but even with tips and salary together it doesn’t go as far as thou mightst guess. Room and board aren’t free, after all, and we have to pay for extra uniforms and all sorts of things like that. Still pays better than, say, sweeping a shop, but it can go fast--a lot of the newer fellows run out of money before the end of the month and have to ask for advances. And thou canst imagine how His Grace feels about those.”

Maia had to hide the jolt he felt at the sound of the familiar title. “Why do you all call him that?” he said, supposing this question was probably safe enough. “Is Mer Nathar some sort of nobleman, or—”

The other boys cackled. “He wishes so, perhaps!” crowed Ardis. “No, his great-uncle or something is some sort of courtier--no one any of us have heard of, but important enough to pull strings, apparently. We’ve guessed that’s how he came to be in charge of us, when he’s never been a courier in his life.”

“Imagine what sort of wreck one would have to make of things,” said Osu, “for _Dispatcher of Aveio’s couriers_ to be the best position one’s high-and-mighty relatives could manage to find for one. He must have…” He looked at the others, and then shook his head, sobering. “Well, we all know what he probably did."

“Let’s get going,” said Parva, seeing Maia’s growing alarm. “We’ve only got a few more in this neighborhood, and then we can make our run out to Goatbrook and be done. Chenelis, do thou the next few on thine own, and we’ll watch thee and make sure all goes well. Here, take these three…” He pressed three neatly-addressed letters into Maia’s hand.

Maia walked with deep trepidation up to the door of the first house, another fine place with silk curtains in the windows. The script fell from his head as a maidservant opened the door, but he stammered out a greeting and managed to get through the interaction unscathed, coming away with three denari. Things were equally smooth at the next house, where he got two. Maia began to think that this work was easier than expected.

Then he came to the third house, a fine place with an impressively large front garden beyond its wall, and ran into a snag.

The door was opened this time by a manservant, who looked Maia up and down in a way that suggested that he wasn’t sure what a goblin--or, perhaps, any courier--was doing here.

“Delivery,” Maia said, as pleasantly and professionally as he could manage.

The manservant didn’t _quite_ sneer. “Well, give it over, then.”

Maia gulped. He had remembered what he was supposed to say next, and didn’t quite dare to deviate. “Ah… a delivery for… for the Honorable Osmer Kela—”

“Give it _here_ , we said,” the man snapped, holding out his hand imperiously. “Think'st thou that we have nothing more to do with our time than stand and listen to a prating courier? We’ve work to do!”

Abashed, Maia held out the letter. The servant jerked it from his hand, stepped back into the house, and slammed the door in Maia’s face.

Maia stared blankly at the nail-studded wood, half expecting the man to come out and shout at him again. After a moment, he turned and walked slowly back down the walk to where the other boys were waiting for him.

“Well?” Osu said, grinning. “What did the old badger have to say?’

“He--the servant?” Maia said, confused.

“Aye, Goru the rotten,” Parva said, rolling his eyes. “Never anything good, with that one. We thought it best to let thee see now how he is, so he wouldn’t surprise thee later when thou wert alone. What was he angry about this time?”

Maia felt a bit better about his delivery attempt. “He said he had no time,” he said. “He got impatient when we tried to read the address…”

“Ah, yes, for him we usually just hand it over,” said Ardis apologetically. “We should have warned thee. Did he pay thee will enough?”

“No…” Maia took the tips he’d received from his coat pocket and handed them to Osu. “These are from the first two houses. Actually, ah… Goru… didn’t pay anything.”

The other boys stopped walking. “ _What?_ ” cried Osu. “ _Again?_ That’s, what, twice since the last—”

“Three times.” Parva looked grimly amused. “Seems he didn’t learn much from the last time.”

Ardis clapped Maia on the shoulder. “Well, Nel, this is to be a particularly educational night for thee. Seems Goru is overdue for another miser’s madrigal.”

“A… what?” Maia said, lost.

The other boys were already leading him back to the house he’d just come from. “Which song, do you think?” said Parva.

“‘Sorrow, Little Bird,’” said Osu authoritatively. “It’s been too long since we did that one. Nel, dost thou know it?”

“No,” Maia admitted, still bewildered. “I’ve never heard of it.”

“No matter,” said Ardis. “Just hum along, or sing bits as thou canst--thou must sing, though, as it was thee he insulted.”

“Oh, but—” Maia began, alarmed. However, the other boys were already shoving him into position in front of the gate and arranging themselves around him. When he turned to ask what was going on, the others had set their faces into expressions so tragic that they might have been illustrations in a parable about almsgiving. Ears drooping, they stood arm-in-arm--with Maia rather crushed between them--and began to sing:

“Sorrow, little bird,

Thou art cold and weary,

Friendless as the night descends…”

They sang in beautiful harmony, clearly well-practiced, their sweet voices echoing off the walls and cobblestones of the empty street. For a moment, Maia could only watch them, amazed. Then Osu dug a sharp elbow into his ribs and--after suppressing a yelp--he began to hum along.

He knew very little of singing, barring the nursery-songs his mother had taught him when he was very young and the folk ballads Aäno liked to sing while she was working. It didn’t seem to matter, though: the others were making more than enough noise to cover up Maia’s shortcomings. 

And the noise seemed rather to be the point: already, windows at several nearby houses were opening, curious neighbors poking their heads out to see what the commotion was. Maia was quite sure someone was going to send them away at any moment. His shoulders slumped as he thought of how a display like this would enrage Setheris. 

The other runners, however, seemed to be quite comfortable with what they were doing, and indeed no one was shouting at them yet. In fact, Maia heard several people laughing. He realized that they must be providing a sort of free entertainment for the neighborhood as well as shaming the miserly Goru. Relaxing, he began to focus more on the song--all about the travails of a small starving sparrow in the midst of winter, which would surely die if not even one stranger would give it succor. 

Just as he began to feel comfortable enough with the lyrics to risk coming in at the next chorus, a door slammed open. Maia turned to watch, stunned--though the others continued to sing--as the aforesaid Goru stormed down the walk of the house behind them and up to the little party of singers. 

Even in the evening lamplight, Maia could see that the man’s elven face was flushed red. He said no word to any of them, but shoved his hand imperiously into Maia’s face.

Maia flinched, expecting a blow, before recovering enough to realize that the servant was trying to give him something. Hesitantly, he held out his hand, and was barely able to catch the coins the man dropped into it. Before Maia could thank him, Goru turned on his heel and strode back down the walkway, slamming the door behind him.

The other boys stopped singing abruptly. “Well?” Osu hissed, peering over Maia’s shoulder. “What did he give thee?”

“Five denari!” Maia whispered, staring in wonderment at the handful of coins in his palm.

Ardis crowed. “There, see? Let this be a lesson, Nel: there’s them in the world as will never do the right thing without being shamed into it. I’ll wager he tips without a reminder next time.”

Maia frowned, feeling a bit guilty as he followed the other boys from the house. “But what if he doesn’t have the money? I feel a bit bad for forcing him to pay…”

The others snorted. “It’s not his money,” Parva said. “It’s from the household funds. Most of these big houses keep a bit of coin by the door to tip for deliveries, so that the servants need not always be troubling the master for it. Goru just likes to skimp so he can keep what’s left over for himself.”

“Oh.” Hearing this, Maia felt considerably better about the situation. “And so… the… ‘madrigal’...”

“Standard punishment.” Osu grinned. “Shame is one of the greatest motivators in the world, isn’t it? If you find the right way to shame someone, you can make them do anything. ‘Swhy I try to live my life always free from shame…”

“Aye, we all know thou’rt shameless, Osu,” Ardis said dryly. “Now, lads, just the one letter left--let’s get out to Goatbrook, and then the Sisters! Nel, as thou’rt new, we’ll stand thee thy drinks this time, but don’t get used to it.” He nudged Maia’s shoulder, grinning to show he meant no offense.

Into the night they went, then, singing a succession of increasingly bawdy songs that Maia had never heard before. Before they had gone very far at all, he began to sing along.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I LIIIIIVE!!!!!
> 
> Hi, kids! I missed you. It's been... a season. I moved continents and took an intensive course, so my flow was interrupted juuust a bit. Also, I am slow as hell. However, whatever happens, I do try to work on this at least a little bit every day. Really happy to be able to post again. Thank you SO MUCH for all your really kind comments! They were very encouraging during the long gap. <3
> 
> A couple of notes:
> 
> 1) The Aveio runners--and, indeed, everything about Aveio--is entirely fabricated. In my mind, they have their own unique fashion and work habits because of their isolation and close bond--they are NOT meant to represent couriers as a general group.
> 
> 2) Maia is going to be stuck in OC-land for at least a few more chapters, because it's going to take me awhile to get him across the continent to Cetho. However, in the next chapter you will get to see some more canon folks on the other end, and I hope they'll be worth the wait.
> 
> 3) This story is never going to be Maia/Pelchara, if that's something someone was wondering/worrying about. Maia's just a teenager with eyes. ^ ^
> 
> 4) I am skimming through TGE again a bit at a time as I write, and I noticed a single paragraph that Josses a big part of my backstory. >_> Please pay no attention to the continuity error behind the curtain.
> 
> 5) It is March 14, 2020, and I hope you're all okay! Stay safe, eat healthy, get lots of sleep, and practice social distancing!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maia has a bad time. : (

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys! This chapter is likely to be trigger-heavy for some readers. If you think this might be you, please CHECK THE TAGS before reading. More detailed warnings are in the notes at the end of the chapter, if you want to skip down and read them. Please read safely!

There were other runners, Maia had learned, who ran deliveries before the sun set. They were younger--twelve and thirteen, mostly, but some as young as ten--and they did not live at the depot, coming to work at dawn and running home again at dusk. After that, it was deemed too dangerous for the smaller boys to be about—-Aveio was a rough city, apparently, and there had been Incidents. As the younger runners could work only with their families’ permission, it was in the depot’s interest to keep them safe.

And that was where the older boys came in. Legal adults--Osu swore he was sixteen, though Maia rather doubted it--they were allowed to decide for themselves what risks they wanted to take; and with their greater size and maturity, the evening runs were somewhat less dangerous for them.

Still, as Maia was to learn one evening, this did not mean that they were  _ safe _ .

He had been out with his usual group--Osu, Parva, and Ardis were regular comrades, apparently, and took their rounds together most nights unless one of them had somewhere else to be. It had been three weeks, and Maia was beginning to grow quite comfortable with his routine. He did not know the city as well as the other boys, of course, but with all the running around he’d done, he’d gotten a very good idea of its layout, and he knew the protocols well enough by now that he could do his work more or less independently. 

With his cut of the tips--which Osu divided scrupulously each evening, though Maia probably wasn’t bringing in as much as the others--he had been able to buy his own little supply of kohl and vermilion and shimmerscale. He wasn’t as good a hand as Osu at applying it all, but he thought he was getting on all right. And in the same market, he had been delighted to find a wide-toothed wooden comb, of the kind his mother had always used to detangle her thick black curls. With this, and a small but growing collection of hair ornaments, he was even able to put his own hair up most of the time, though Parva remained happy to help him. In short, Maia was looking and feeling very much like a proper courier on the night he first ran into trouble.

He really should have been paying more attention. They were wandering through the city’s largest night-market--having finished their round of deliveries for the day unusually early--full from a cheap and generous dinner at the market’s food stalls, where they’d feasted on boiled eggs and savory, dumpling-filled soup redolent of chicken and mushrooms. Maia, having learned that the food was traditional cuisine from the Evressai Steppes, was noticing for the first time how well that culture was represented in this market. Looking around for the steppe-people’s telltale clothing and decor--the tassels, the tapestries, the hand-knotted carpets of richly-dyed wool--he didn’t notice for some time that he had fallen behind his companions.

Finding himself alone--or as alone as one could be in the crowded, lamp-lit darkness--he cast frantically around for the other runners. To his relief, he saw them not far away, marveling over a display of intricately-worked boots at another Evressai stall. Unfortunately, they were separated from Maia by a growing crowd of people listening to a minstrel--and, having been warned quite thoroughly about pickpockets the first time he’d entered this market, he didn’t care to try pressing through the crowd.

Instead, he decided to go around.

Picking his way around the outskirts of the minstrel’s audience, Maia hurried to the nearest clear walking space he could find, quite near to the edge of the market square. He was making his way swiftly along this little avenue when someone called him from a nearby alley.

“Hey, you there. Boy.”

Reflexively he turned, and saw a man standing just inside the alley entrance. He was elvish, probably between thirty and forty, and relatively solid. Beyond that, Maia couldn’t see much of him. “Yes?” he said uncertainly. “What is it?”

“We’ve a question--come here, will you?”

Maia hesitated. There was something odd about this situation, but he couldn’t pinpoint exactly what it was. Hesitantly, he took a few steps closer to the alley. “Yes, mer? What is it?”

“Come here and look at this.”

Maia couldn’t see what the man was pointing to. He took a few steps closer. “What is—”

Before he could finish his question, the man’s arm snapped out, and a brawny hand caught Maia roughly by the wrist. “Come  _ here _ , we said,” said the stranger--and he reeled Maia roughly into the alley.

Maia tried to shout, but the man slapped a hand over his face, callused palm covering his mouth and fingers digging into his cheeks. He shoved Maia up against the wall of the next building, forcing his thigh between Maia’s legs. “Here, thou little whore, thou little wanton… little goblin cat, we have something for thee…”

With his free hand, Maia tried to beat the man away, but his attacker seemed not even to feel the blows. He leaned in, ducking his head under Maia’s chin, and licked a hot wet stripe up Maia’s neck--then latched his lips onto Maia’s throat and began, obscenely, to suck. 

Groaning in disgust and horror, Maia tried to break free, but the man only pressed him harder against the wall, grinding his hard-muscled thigh against Maia’s crotch. 

_ He will rape me _ , Maia thought, struck numb by the horror of it.  _ And then he may kill me _ . Sixteen years of futility and pain--a brief rush of freedom--and now his new life was to end in a filthy, stinking alleyway, in a city where no one even knew his real name.  _ What have I accomplished, bringing myself here? I’ve never even kissed anyone yet… and now… _

The man let go of his face and began to fumble up under the hem of Maia’s coat, groping for his flies. Maia sucked in a deep breath and began to shout. “Get  _ off _ ! Let go of us! We know thee not--let us go!”

Grunting, his attacker released Maia’s arm and covered his mouth instead. Though Maia now had both arms free to fight, his most powerful blows seemed to do nothing against the man’s greater bulk. He could feel the stranger’s thick fingers beginning to loosen the knot on his laces. Blinking back furious tears, Maia stepped hard on the man’s foot--and was surprised, but deeply relieved, when the man suddenly stepped back.

Maia, gasping, soon saw that his assailant had not moved voluntarily, but had been pulled off of him. Ardis now had him by the hair and one arm. Osu had somehow, despite his much smaller height, managed to hook an elbow around the man’s throat, and Parva was hauling backward on the arm Ardis had not secured. The stranger was shouting, but with Osu’s arm around his throat he wasn’t making much noise.

Maia staggered back against the wall and sucked down a grateful breath. “Thank you,” he said, low and fervent. “I could not--he would not—”

“Our pleasure, Nel.” Ardis’ voice was deceptively calm. He was rather larger and stronger than the other runners, and it was possible he could have managed the stranger on his own. With Parva and Osu helping him, he seemed to have the matter well in hand.

“But why didst wander off?” said Osu, sounding rather annoyed. “Safety in numbers, we told thee.”

Maia took another deep breath. His throat seemed to tingle and burn where his attacker’s filthy mouth had touched him, and the man’s hard thigh had left him bruised between his legs. He couldn’t seem to put his words into the right order. “I--only--I just—”

Ardis tightened his grip on his captive’s hair. “I don’t know what thou wert taught as a child,” he told Maia mildly, as the man grunted, “but in Aveio it’s best to stay away from dark alleys at night. Now: wert taught self defense?”

Maia binked, thrown by the change of topic, still too frightened and upset to really process what was going on. “Self defense?” he said dully.

“He means,” said Parva gently, “dost know anything about fighting off an attacker?”

A flash of memory--Setheris, raising his fist, shoving Maia backward, kicking him to the floor…. Setheris, frustrated to the point of rage by some private grief of his own, dragging Maia physically from the room, by the wrist or the arm or the scruff of his jacket--by the hair, even, and once by the throat… Suddenly Maia found it difficult to breathe. “No,” he stammered, staring at the wall so he wouldn’t have to see the man who had attacked him, or any of the others. “No… we know nothing about it.”

From the corner of his eye, he thought he saw the others exchange glances. His tone must have been rather bleak. “Well,” said Ardis, clearing his throat after a moment, “we’d better teach thee.”

Maia turned and saw Ardis settle his weight backward, taking a firmer grip on his captive. The man was still struggling, but weakly: with his airflow restricted for so long, he must have been about to suffocate.

“When thou lookest at this pile of festering shit,” Ardis said companionably, pulling the man’s hair back harder, baring a bit more of his throat, “what weak spots dost thou see?”

“Weak spots?” said Maia, frowning. The man was much bigger than he was, and well-muscled; he looked quite strong all over.

To his surprise, it was quiet Parva who spoke up next. “All living things can be hurt,” he said. “What is the easiest way to hurt a man? In what places is he most vulnerable? Thou art a man thyself; thou knowest as well as any of us how a blow will hurt. Look how he stands--see how he hunches, how he bends his knees. What parts of himself is he protecting?”

Maia stared at the man, but his mind was not there. He was thinking, instead, of himself, crouching on the carpet in Setheris’s study, wrapping his arms about himself to protect himself from another blow. “Face,” he said, staring and seeing nothing. He remembered the bruises that had bloomed again and again across his face when he’d lived with Setheris--how his lip had swollen, and his eyes had blackened, and his nose had bled. “Eyes,” he said dully. “Nose. Mouth. Ears,” he added, remembering all the times Setheris had boxed his ears or twisted them. “Neck.” He knew how it felt to be grabbed by the throat--to be choked, to be dragged about by someone who did not care if he could breathe. “Belly. Back.” Harder blows, those--sometimes a petty kick when he was down, or the many times he’d been thrown against the walls and furniture. 

Glancing at the man--who was, indeed, hunching oddly around the middle of himself--Maia added dryly, “Genitals.” Setheris had never quite dared, but Maia remembered hearing Aäno tell a friend how she’d run off an over-familiar suitor who wouldn’t take her ‘no’ as law. And most likely this was the answer Parva had been looking for, anyway.

He came back to himself and saw the other boys staring at him, looking vaguely alarmed. “Hast had some time to think about this,” said Ardis oddly. “That last one is rather what we meant. Well, here is thy target. Try it out. Give him a good, strong kick in the ballocks.”

The runners’ prisoner made a small choking noise, and renewed his efforts to break free. Osu, humming, stomped down hard on the instep of the man’s foot, and was rewarded with a muffled scream. “That’s one thou missed, Nel,” he said cheerfully. “Feet are very sensitive--else why would we wear boots? Take out a man’s feet and he won’t quickly come after thee.”

Maia stared helplessly between the man and the boys holding him. “I… can’t,” he said. “I’ve never…”

Osu scoffed. “Hast never kicked anyone before? Truly?”

“No, never,” Maia said. “I’ve never fought anyone in my life.”

The other boys exchanged glances. Maia couldn’t tell if they believed him. “Try using thy knee, then,” Ardis said. “Like a bone club--just think of what he tried to do to thee, Nel, what he’d be doing now if we hadn’t found thee.”

These words had their effect, transporting him instantly back to the helplessness and terror of the moments before his rescue. He remembered how certain he had been that he would die--that the new narrative of his life would end here, before he’d learned to do more than paint his face and run a few messages. And he remembered, too, all the  _ other  _ times he’d been helpless: quailing under the foot of the guardian who hated him, knowing he could never fight back for fear of worse things coming.

But he was not at Edonomee anymore. He did not have to  _ endure _ \--he was his own man, and could defend himself as necessary, just as any man could. And this man had set upon him, and held him down, and planned to rape him. Had probably done it before, to others who did not have friends to protect them. Would probably do it again.

Maia had the sudden, all-encompassing desire to fight back--to batter this man so thoroughly he’d never think of approaching Maia again--or anyone else, for that matter.

The others seemed to see that his resolve had shifted, because they stepped back and held the man in place for him, exposing face and torso and groin. Maia took a deep breath, gathered his strength, and slammed his knee into the apex of the man’s legs.

The choked, broken sound the man let out then almost made Maia feel guilty, but his fellows cheered him on. “There, that’s what thou must do,” said Ardis, getting a firmer grip on his prisoner’s shoulders as the man’s weight slumped. “But he’s still standing. Hit him again--perhaps a good punch in the gut, or to the kidneys. Best avoid the face--not to preserve his beauty, mind, but the head’s a bone box, and thou wouldst not want to break thy fingers.”

Almost automatically, Maia balled his hands into fists, though he was dimly horrified by the whole situation. Before he could move--if, indeed, he would have hit the man again, which he wasn’t sure of--Osu caught his arm. “Is that how thou makest a fist? Wilt break thy fingers anyhow! Thumb on the  _ outside _ , Nel, like so.”

Maia followed his example. The resulting fist was much spikier and stronger than before. Osu gave Maia’s knuckles an approving pat. “There, see? The two big knuckles there--hit with those, as if thou wert aiming to punch right through. Arm straight as an arrow when thou finishest--there, that’s it. Now, punch him hard in the gut--just here, between the tits and the navel. Put your  _ weight  _ into it, Nel!” he scolded, as Maia’s first punch barely made an impact against the man’s leather jacket. “Again--harder, this time!”

Maia’s second punch was better. The man gave a guttural grunt, spewing out a lungful of beer-scented breath. It brought Maia instantly and intimately back to the moment when the man had grabbed him--when that filthy breath had washed over his face, and that wet red mouth had begun to lave at his throat…

He began to hit the man again and again, each blow harder than the last. The other runners, seeing that he was now taking their lesson more in earnest, began to show him other techniques, other targets. “Try thine elbow now--there, in the same spot--see how he folds in? Hast knocked his breath away.” “Here, do the same now with the heel of thy hand--yes, hard and straight, just as with thy fist… There. Again. Good.” “Canst hit him thus in the nose, too, and break it. Or in the throat, even--but there's a chance that could kill him, so keep it for serious fights, unless wouldst risk the scaffold.” “There. He’s down. Kick him up behind his ribs, right here and here… there, that's the kidney. He’ll be pissing blood, now!” At this last crow from Osu, Maia came back to himself. He saw that his erstwhile attacker was lying in the filth of the alley--that he was groaning, stretched out as if reaching for something to hold onto, but wasn’t otherwise moving. As Maia watched, growing steadily more horrified, Ardis kicked the man in the gut with one booted foot, and Parva gave him three sharp kicks to the ribs, smiling with a vindictiveness Maia had never before seen on his usually-placid face.

It was enough. It was too much. Breaking free from his friends, Maia staggered further down the alley, fell to his knees, and was violently sick.

“What’s toward, Nel?--Ah, gods, there comes dinner.” Osu’s tone was a mixture of disgust, amusement, and concern. “Our delicate flower. Too much for thee, was it?”

“Help him up and let’s go,” called Ardis, “before someone comes by and calls the constable. Parva, what art thou doing?”

“Leaving an explanation,” Parva said grimly. As Maia staggered past, mouth sour, with Osu’s bracing arm around his shoulder, he saw Parva bent over the man’s face, scratching letters into the skin of his brow with some sort of long, sharp pin.

“What art thou writing?” said Osu curiously. He steered Maia--who was feeling another wave of nausea at this sight--past the supine man and out of the alley.

A moment later, Parva followed. “ _ Rapist, _ ” he said, wiping his pin on his sleeve. “If we hadn’t gotten there in time--truly, art thou all right, Chenelis? Thou lookst dreadful.”

“I’m all right,” Maia said. Gratefully he allowed the others to lead him away from the alley. “It’s only that I’ve never done anything like this before.”

From the corner of his eye, he could see the others exchanging glances. “To be honest, I thought thou hadst some little experience with fighting,” said Ardis. He ducked down another small street, nodding to the others to follow him. Maia supposed it was some sort of shortcut. “Thou hadst so many ideas, when we asked thee what targets were best for hurting a man…”

Maia winced. “I have… some experience, with violence,” he said grudgingly, the words emerging roughly from his sore throat. “Just not with being the one to deal it out.” 

He could feel the exact moment when the other boys caught his meaning, as they all stiffened and moved a little closer to him. “Sorry to hear it,” Ardis said. Despite the understated phrasing, his tone was sincere. “Not a scrapper, then, art thou? 

“Not in the slightest,” Maia said dryly.

“Then today’s lesson might not be much good for thee,” said Osu. “Knowing where and how best to hit a man won’t be much benefit if thou hast not the will to do it when the time comes.”

Maia tried not to hear the words as censure, but his tone was still very slightly sullen when he replied, “We thank you for the lesson, but what would you have us do? We’re afraid we cannot change our nature.”

“Ah, don’t get stuffy, Nel,” Osu said, nudging him gently. “I wasn’t trying to pass judgement on thee. It’s only that thou canst not rely on blows to protect thee, if thou art not willing to deal them at full strength. So perhaps a weapon?” He looked at the other boys. “A cat’s claw or a steppe-needle might do--something easy to hide and easy to use.”

“A… what are those?” Maia asked, wide-eyed.

Osu grinned, and showed him a chunky ring that he wore on his right middle finger. He ran a fingernail across it, and suddenly a sharp, curved little blade popped up from a groove in the ring, locking itself into place with a snap. “Cat’s claw,” he said, demonstrating with a swiping motion. “One good scratch to the eyes with this and they’ll leave thee alone. I’ve a dagger, too, for serious trouble, but for a nuisance like that fellow back there this usually does the trick. Parva, show him thy needle.”

Parva reached into a thin pocket in his livery jacket and revealed the “pin” he’d used to scratch their victim’s face. It was no pin or needle in truth, Maia saw now, but a nasty metal spike about six inches long. The thin end was as viciously pointed as an awl, while the other end… “Is that an arrowhead?” he said, blinking. One of the boys who did seasonal work at Edonomee had collected them. Apparently they could be found buried in the fields around the marshes, as the people of the Evressai Steppes had once ranged much farther south than they now did.

But those ancient arrowheads were usually made of stone. This one looked like steel, and he couldn’t imagine what the spike was for.

“It’s for piercing armor,” Ardis said, as Parva handed the spike to Maia. Maia turned it carefully in his hands, shocked by its wicked sharpness. “Some of the steppe tribes use these when they fight our armies,” Ardis went on, sounding almost admiring. “The spike goes down into the arrow-shaft to make it stronger. A well-made armor-piercer can go straight through a steel breastplate. They’ve had to start sending mazei out with our men on the steppes, just for extra protection. The Nazhmorhathveras--that means the Evresseize--have some of the best archers in the world.”

“Oh.” Blinking, Maia handed the arrowhead back to Parva. “I didn’t know that.” He’d known nothing at all about the steppe tribes before coming to Aveio, except that they were supposed to be bloodthirsty barbarians. Granted, it was hard to connect that image with the wizened, hard-drinking women who ran the food stalls in the night market. “But why do you carry it, Parva?”

The other boy laughed, and Maia blushed as he realized what a stupid question that was. “Canst put an eye out with this,” said Parva, sliding the arrowhead into a slender leather sheath, which he tucked back into the pocket he’d taken it from. “A lot of the steppe-women carry them for protection. They’re light, and not too dear, and they’ll deal a nasty wound if thou stickest one in the soft bits of whoever’s troubling thee. Face, or neck, or jewels, or hands or feet--it’s easy to do a good bit of harm with one. And if constables catch thee after a fight, thou’lt be clearly the innocent party--no one goes looking for a brawl with only a steppe-needle in his pocket.” He glanced at Maia. “I can find thee one, if thou wouldst like--in the market they’re not so hard to find.”

Maia had never before considered carrying a weapon, and the thought of doing it now was unsettling. But… He thought of how easily the man in the alley had held him down, how feeble his own blows had been in comparison. Even were he as large and solid as Ardis, Maia knew he’d never be a brawler. But had he had such a thing as that wicked arrowhead in his pocket, he could have jabbed it into the man’s neck, or his belly, or lower still, and surely those hands would have loosened enough for Maia to get away. “Yes,” he said, nodding slowly. “If thou… if thou seest one, I’d greatly appreciate it. I’ll pay thee back…”

“I know thou wilt!” Parva said cheerfully. “I’ll look for one next time I’m in the market, as I want to go back to that leather stall, anyway. Those boots… canst imagine?” he said to Osu, who was nodding agreement. “How long dost suppose it would take me to save up for them?”

“All thy life and more,” said Osu dryly. “Better limit thy dreams to a water flask or something--or ask Rever to buy thee them to set off thy shapely legs…”

As Osu and Parva continued to banter, Maia turned to Ardis and said shyly, “Dost carry such a thing thyself, Ardis? A steppe-needle or a… a cat’s claw?”

Ardis grinned. “Nothing so subtle.” He drew aside his woolen cape and showed Maia a short, solid cudgel hanging from his hip. “I like a good brawl now and then, and I’ve the muscles to back me up, so this suits me fine.” He led his cape fall. “Really, though, Nel, thou dost need to carry something, especially if thou’lt be a rider. The stories we’ve heard about what people can run into out on the road--a drunk in Aveio’s nothing to that.”

“I’ll keep it in mind,” Maia said slowly, wondering what he’d gotten himself into.

  
  
  


_ (Three weeks before) _

Nemolis Drazhar stared in bemused horror at the cowering figure at the base of the throne. He had not recognized Setheris Nelar when the man was shown in, having had very few interactions with him before his banishment. And, truly, the years had not been kind to his brother’s guardian, who looked thin and worn and rather dissipated to Nemolis’ eye. But the really shocking thing was the news the man had come to tell, which Nemolis could not quite get his head around. 

Neither, it seemed, could his father.

“A month,” said Varenechibel, his voice icily blank. “A  _ month _ our son has been gone from Edonomee, and thou tellest us only now? We beg to hear thy reason, Osmer Nelar, for this unconscionable delay.”

Nelar, already fully prostrate, cringed lower, as if he wished to press his face through the marble floor. “We did not wish to worry you, Serenity,” he said, voice quite muffled by his posture. “We thought… the b--His Grace is young, and… he… had expressed a desire for more independence… we had every hope that he had not gone far, and—”

“And so,” Varenechibel broke in, voice still expressionless, “for a  _ month _ \--for four full weeks--thou didst what, exactly? Sat staring at the windows at Edonomee, hoping thou wouldst see our son coming up the road again? We must confess to being quite bewildered by thine optimism, Setheris.”

Nelar stiffened. “We… Serenity, though by your word we have been confined to the grounds of Edonomee these seven years, we… under the circumstances, we thought it would be best… to visit Calestho, and Aveio, and see… whether we might locate, ah, His Grace, and…”

“Aha.” Varenechibel’s tone was unsurprised. Nemolis thought he even heard a note of satisfaction in his father’s voice, though Father always spoke so dryly it was difficult for even Nemolis to tell. “So. In addition to losing  _ our son _ , Osmer Nelar, and failing to notify anyone until he had been wandering alone for several weeks--in addition to  _ that _ , thou hast chosen to break the conditions of thy residence at Edonomee, and to travel freely wherever thou wouldst. Truly, Nelar, thy wisdom must be greater than any of our courtiers’, to let thee know and judge better than the emperor himself.”

Nelar paled. “No, Serenity,” he said desperately, “certainly we did not--:”

Varenechibel lazily beckoned to his secretaries. “Osmer Nelar is to be confined to the Esthoramire for the present,” he said. “We shall decide at a later time whether he is ever to leave it, and in what fashion.”

Nemolis watched, nonplussed, as his kinsman was escorted forcefully from the audience chamber. His mind was spinning. He had been in the habit, since the first and only time he’d seen his brother, of thinking of Maia as a child still--a curious trick the mind played when one hadn’t seen someone in a long time. In his mind’s eye, Maia was still a shy, delicate boy of nine, standing in the crowd at his mother’s funeral, draped in grief even more visible than the mourning clothes he wore. Maia had barely lifted his eyes from Chenelo’s casket the entire time Nemolis had watched him, and had certainly never looked his father or siblings in the eye.

Varenechibel had been deeply unimpressed. Nemolis, however, had thought of his own mother’s funeral, and how he and Nemriän had clung to each other in their grief--how they’d done their best, in turn, to comfort Nazhira, Ciris and Vedero years later, when Pazhiro had died suddenly in childbirth. He’d thought, too, of his own son Idra--not so much smaller than little Maia, though four full years younger. Impossible to imagine that Idra would be left alone like that to mourn, should something one day happen to Nemolis.

He realized that his father had spoken. “We beg your pardon, Father,” he said, half-bowing. “We did not hear you properly.”

Varenechibel scoffed. “We said,” he said, “that this is truly a nuisance. The little brat could be anywhere in the Ethuveraise by now, and we’ve not the time or attention to concern ourself with him. We should have known better than to trust Nelar to watch him--the man always was a fool.”

Nemolis kept his face carefully blank. HIs father, however, took one look at him and sneered. “Thy face is an open book, Nemolis. Come, let us have thy told-thee-sos. Didst always wish to have thy little goblin brother here at court, thou and Pashavar. So go on; let’s hear what thou wouldst say.”

Nemolis bowed again, a little more deeply. “We humbly beg your pardon, Father,” he said, knowing his father was in no mood to tolerate informality. “In fact, we were wondering what sort of person Maia has grown into. We’ve seen him only the once, and never spoken to him, so we can’t imagine well what would have prompted him to do… this.”

Varenechibel peered at him with a look in his cool gray eyes that Nemolis did not particularly like. “As thou art so curious,” said the Emperor silkily, “we give thee leave to find out.” At Nemolis’ uncomprehending look, he clarified, “We shall leave the investigation in thy hands. Get together with Orthema, or whoever thou wilt, and see what’s to be done. We suppose the servants at Edonomee will have to be interrogated, and searchers sent out--Orthema will likely know what to do. And when thou findest thy brother…” His eyes narrowed slightly, and his mouth twisted with displeasure. “Have him brought here, that we may speak with him.”

He turned away then, a clear dismissal, and Nemolis was left to go and take up a job he had not the least idea how to do.

To his dismay, Captain Orthema was not to be much help. “It is, in fact, very unfortunate timing, Your Highness,” the captain said. He glanced toward the door, as if some business had followed him to the Tortoise Room and waited just outside to catch him up. “We must leave very early tomorrow for the Evressai badlands to consult with some of the officers stationed there, as the current campaign is going very ill in that region. Were there anyone else who had the necessary experience to advise them, we would send them in our stead, but our presence is quite seriously needed. We could, perhaps, delay our departure by a few days, if His Serenity required it, but we consider it very unwise to delay by more than that.”

“No, no, you certainly must go,” Nemolis said, knowing his father would never in the world let the search for Maia take priority over a military campaign. “But we beg you to advise us, Captain, before you go: what are we to do? We know the servants at Edonomee must be interviewed, and searchers sent out, but we’ve not the least idea how to manage it. We’ve never been concerned in anything of the kind before.”

Orthema’s face retained its usual masklike calm, but his fingers twitched slightly as if he were calculating something. “We may not stay ourself,” he said at last, “but we can certainly leave an officer or two to help you. We’ll give some thought to who would be most suitable, and instruct them as to how best to carry out the search. Should the Archduke not be found before we return from the Steppes, we can take up the investigation then. If it pleases Your Highness, we shall proceed so.”

“Yes,” said Nemolis quickly, grabbing thankfully onto this rope. “That would be tremendously helpful; thank you, Captain Orthema. Please have your man attend us here when you’ve instructed him--we’ll be here for the remainder of the afternoon.” He nodded to his secretary, who nodded back; at least they could get some work done while they waited. “And best of luck to you in the badlands. Where will you be stationed?”

“Our base is a town called Vorenzhessar, a few miles from the edge of the Steppes. We may be called well out from there, however, depending on how things go. We wish you luck as well, Your Highness, and hope the Archduke will be found swiftly.” Orthema hesitated, and then added, “If there is any… correspondence--a ransom note, or anything of that nature--we would request that a courier be sent to call us back immediately. From the sounds of things, the Archduke most likely left home looking for a bit of adventure… but if it were a kidnapping…”

Nemolis thought, suddenly and inevitably, of how he would feel were his Idra to disappear from home. He suppressed a shudder, and tried to keep his expression calm. “Yes. We will certainly do that. Safe travels, Captain.”

He spent the next three hours with his secretary, going over correspondence and adjusting his schedule to allow time for this new responsibility. He would have to drag Nazhira and Ciris into it, he supposed--or, more properly, would have to delegate a few of his duties to his brothers for the foreseeable future, depending on how long this business dragged out. If Nazhira could be persuaded to part with his pipe for a few minutes…

At the striking of the third hour, the door of the Tortoise Room opened and a pair of guardsmen walked in. One was the very picture of a soldier, as if an illustration from a children's storybook had come alive: sleek white topknot perfectly aligned, musculature perfectly proportioned, face and bearing perfectly correct. The man behind him was a little taller, a little darker, slightly thinner, and much more approachable-looking. Both wore lieutenants’ knots on their shoulders, and both bowed deeply when they reached the desk where Nemolis was working.

“Your Highness,” the first guardsman said, when they had risen, “we were sent here by Captain Orthema to assist in the search for His Grace the Archduke Maia. We are Lieutenant Beshelar, and this is Lieutenant Telimezh. We are honored to serve in any way we can.”

  
  


Maia had not often had occasion to see Jeru Nathar since joining the Aveio runner fleet. For one thing, his duties did not often take him near Nathar’s office; and for another, Nathar’s inclination did not often take him out of it. Thus, it was not until nearly a month after Maia started working that he learned firsthand the truth of the rumors surrounding his new employer.

He was passing through the third-floor corridor, having carried something upstairs at the request of one of the maids, when a door opened and Osmer Nathar stepped out into the hallway. He did not at first seem to notice Maia. Then, as Maia bowed reflexively on his way past, the dispatcher stopped short and stared at him.

“Who--Tanazh, is’t thee? Well, they’ve tarted thee up thoroughly, haven’t they?”

Maia did not know what to say. He lowered his eyes and, with an effort, managed to keep himself from touching his face or hair. “Mer,” he murmured awkwardly.

The dispatcher walked around him slowly. “Thy trousers are too tight,” he commented, something odd in his tone that Maia couldn’t quite identify, “and that color suits thee ill--a little too whorish, we think, especially with all the paint thou hast caked on. Art doing a bit of work on the side, perhaps, Tanazh? Art not paid enough to run letters?” When Maia, paralyzed with startled humiliation, did not reply, Nathar grabbed his arm and shook it. “Answer when thou art spoken to. Hast been whoring thyself?”

“No, mer,” Maia whispered, trying to keep his voice from shaking. 

“Speak louder.”

“No, mer.” Maia cleared his throat and managed to speak louder. “We do no work except for running messages. We apologize for any shortcomings in our dress.”

Nathar snorted softly and let him go. “Well, we suppose thou canst not help it, being Barizheise--a slattern like all the rest of them, we’ve no doubt. But do try not to be caught with any cocks in that red little mouth of thine, aye? It reflects badly on the rest of the fleet.” As Maia drew an outraged breath, Nathar turned on his heel and walked away.

When Maia came downstairs to where the others were waiting to go to dinner, he felt more conspicuous than he had in weeks. Every time someone looked at him, he found himself lifting his hand automatically to shield his face from view. Did he really stand out so? Osu and Parva wore more paint than he did, and so did several of the riders--but Ardis wore much less, and all of them were full-blooded elven. Perhaps Maia should have been dressing to escape notice, rather than to fit in with his fellows. Perhaps—

“Hey.” Ardis snapped his fingers in Maia’s face, and Maia realized all the others were staring at him. “ _ Hey _ , Tanazh, what’s eating thee?” Frowning, Ardis peered more closely at Maia’s face. “Art ill? We’ll bring thee back something, if thou wouldst rather rest…”

“Ah… no.” Maia did his best to clear his expression, and managed a sickly little smile that surely wasn’t fooling anyone. “I’m fine, really. Sorry. It’s… ah, Mer Nathar said something…”

Osu let out a huff of irritation. “Gods, what had  _ he  _ to say? He’s been in that office so long this time, I’d begun to hope he’d drunk himself to death.”

Maia thought fleetingly of Setheris. “Is that… a weakness of his?” he said carefully.

“Oh, he has all sorts of vices,” said Parva, leading them carefully around a knot of customers by one of the more popular market stalls. “I believe he’s more interested in poppy tears, in general, but he’ll not say no to anything that makes him hate his life a little less.” He peered at Maia. “What did he say to thee, Nel? Hast not been so shy since the day thou first arrived here.”

In the face of his friend’s penetrating stare, Maia found he could not lie. “He said I looked like a whore,” he said flatly. “And told me not to get caught with a… with a  _ cock  _ in my mouth."

The others hissed at that, although their outrage seemed more in response to the intended insult than to the accusation itself. “Not as if we haven’t all been called whores before,” said Osu, “and thou’lt hear it again, don’t worry. But for him to speak so to thee… that was how it started with Tulis, wasn’t it?” he said to Ardis and Parva, who nodded gravely. “It’s what I thought… then, Nel, you’ll want to keep well away from him--for if he’s started associating thee with cocks—”

Ardis elbowed him. Parva grimaced. “If thou hast caught his eye, Nel, it could go ill for thee. Try to stay with us as much as thou canst--and if thou must be alone, stay far from Jeru.”

Unfortunately, this advice was not easily followed. Though Maia had initially gone a month without seeing the dispatcher, suddenly Mer Nathar seemed to be everywhere he looked. Once he came into the hallway as Maia and his friends were passing. “Thy breeches are still too  _ tight _ , Tanazh. Truly, thou lookest like a streetwalker.” Another time, he was standing outside his office in the early hours of the morning when the night-runners came back from their rounds. “Why look'st thou so  _ weary _ , Tanazh? Didst make a few extra  _ stops _ on thy way home?” He even came up into the dormitories for a surprise inspection--which, according to the others, he’d never once done before. “Is  _ that _ thy bed, Tanazh? Why, we’ve never  _ seen  _ one so rumpled. It must see a great deal of  _ activity _ .”

Maia’s friends did their best to close ranks around him, but Nathar did not appear to find them intimidating in the slightest. “He’s really fixed on thee,” said Ardis sympathetically, as Maia furiously straightened his bed linens after the dormitory visit. “Even with Tulis, he didn’t start off this bad, although with some of the maids he was—” His voice trailed off, and his face stayed fixed in a worried frown.

A few days later, the four of them were passing through the ground-floor corridor on their way back from lunch when they crossed paths again with Mer Nathar. His eyes fell on Maia for a moment, and he reached into his pocket. Before the runners could get by, Nathar scattered a large handful of coins across the stone floor.

Everyone in the corridor stopped still. For a moment, silence reigned. Then Nathar sighed gustily. “Tanazh, thou little buffoon,” he said to Maia, who was two paces away. “Hast jostled us, and forced us to  _ spill— _ ” his mouth quirked into an ugly smirk—”across the floor. Get on thy knees and clean it up, thou idiot boy, and be quick about it.”

Before Maia could move, Osu, Ardis, and Parva all stepped forward. Stone-faced, they crouched to gather the scattered coins. They had barely begun to do so, however, when Nathar snapped, “You three leave off. Get out of here, all of you, or you’ll be docked a week’s pay. We’re quite serious,” he added, narrowing his eyes as Osu seemed about to continue.

The three runners hesitated. For a selfish, desperate second, Maia hoped that his friends would defy the order and stay to help him. One by one, however, they stood, looked apologetically at Maia, and left the corridor.

Nathar’s smirk had returned. “What art thou waiting for, Tanazh?” He gestured to the floor. “On thy knees.”

Maia sank slowly to the floor. He was intensely conscious that all the others in the corridor--riders, runners, maids--were watching his humiliation. As quickly as he could, he gathered up the scattered coins, suppressing curses as they slipped again and again from his shaking fingers.

It took a long time--Nathar had been energetic in his throw, and bronze and silver glints speckled the floor for several spaces in both directions. All the while, Nathar stood watching him, and periodically made suggestive comments. “Is’t familiar to thee, Tanazh, to be crawling on the floor after coin? We suppose it must be... Look how he waves his buttocks in the air. Is that why thou becamest a runner, Chenelis? To flash about thine arse in crimson livery?” Occasionally these comments were met with chuckles from certain of the other couriers. For the most part, however, the corridor was silent.

When at last Maia had gathered all the coins, he took a deep breath and began to stand. Nathar’s voice stopped him. “Did we say thou couldst rise, Tanazh? Back on thy knees, and bring them here.”

For a moment, Maia was on the point of flinging the coins to the ground and storming from the corridor. But he would surely lose his position if he did so, and he had nowhere else to go.  _ It’s been a month _ , he told himself, taking a deep breath.  _ Mer Breva must surely send for thee soon--only endure this a little longer.  _ He transferred the coins carefully to one hand, braced himself on the other, and crawled across the floor to offer them to Mer Nathar.

“In here.” Nathar held open the pocket of his dark velvet jacket. But when Maia tried to put the coins inside, the dispatcher twitched the fabric away, until the pocket hung more over his groin than his hip. Suppressing a snarl, Maia tried again.

The angle was such that, once he had dropped the coins into Mer Nathar’s pocket, his hand remained mostly inside. Before he could withdraw it, Nathar clamped down with a surprisingly strong grip, trapping Maia’s wrist and forcing his palm downward. The hard, hot bulge he felt beneath the other man’s clothing made it clear what the point of this exercise had been.

He ripped his hand free, horror-struck, and stumbled backward across the floor. A ripple of laughter passed through the few men remaining in the corridor--the runners and riders Osu and his friends said were best avoided. Hot-faced with shame, Maia pushed himself to his feet and straightened his clothing, wiping his hand reflexively on his breeches

Nathar straightened his own coat with a demure little flick. “How  _ vulgar _ , Tanazh. We would have thought thou hadst enough of that sort of business in thine own free time--art so desperate to have a prick in thine hand as to go groping at thy betters? We’re quite sure thy little friends upstairs would be glad to play that game with thee, if thou truly canst not control thyself.”

From the depths of his humiliation and disgust, Maia thought that if he ever killed a man it would be Jeru Nathar. He turned his back without a word and strode from the corridor, wondering if he could survive this until Shalis Breva sent for him again. He grew less and less sure of it by the day.

He tried.  _ Desperately,  _ he tried to stay out of his employer’s way. The others tried to help--they all felt bad, he knew, for leaving him in the corridor that day--but there was little they could do, beyond the occasional lie when Nathar asked them directly where Maia was. “Oh, he’s gone out for lunch; he’d a bit of work to do earlier…” “Nay, we’re sure he was upstairs--he was sleeping, wasn’t he, Parva?” Maia had to be grateful, but he couldn't help feel a bit bitter: he wondered if they’d stepped aside with the same embarrassed silence when Nathar had his hooks in Tulis or the unfortunate maids  


_ Nay, they’re as powerless as thou art, hobgoblin _ , he reminded himself, trudging upstairs in silence to prepare for his evening rounds.  _ And much more so--for art thou not the son of the Emperor?  _

And that, really, was the core of the matter: Maia  _ did not have to stay.  _ Was, arguably, very  _ wrong  _ to stay: he was not supposed to be here. He could go and find the local army outpost--or perhaps the constabulary? Even the mayor’s house, perhaps--and tell them who he was and what had been done to him. Could have done so after that first man assaulted him in the alley--and really, that would have been the time for it, as Nathar wasn’t putting Maia in any real physical danger. Nathar, the would-be rapist, even the guard outside Calestho who’d stolen his money--if it became known that they’d harassed and assaulted the Emperor’s son, even his least favorite one, they would surely be arrested and made to pay. Assuming, of course, that Maia could convince the relevant authorities that he was who he said he was.

Wouldn’t that be a funny bit of irony? To struggle so hard to conceal his identity, only to be disbelieved when he tried to depend on it?

Well. A good thing he wouldn’t be trying that, either way. He’d made up his mind, and he was going to—

“Tanazh!”

He stopped short and felt the blood leave his face. He had, in his distraction, taken the one route through the building he  _ always  _ tried not to take--and here, leering from beside the office doorway, stood the consequence.

“Inside,” Nathar said, stepping aside with a peremptory gesture. 

Maia thought of refusing, but wasn’t quite bold enough to face whatever consequence that would bring. He stepped into the room. The door closed behind him with a heavy thud.

“Go and stand by the window, Tanazh.” The dispatcher’s voice was mild. He barely looked at Maia. “Tell us what goes on across the street.”

Maia did not like this, but the instruction was innocuous enough. He walked across the room and looked out the window. “Nothing out of the ordinary, mer,” he said, as politely as he could manage. “People coming and going. A few riders leaving. Ah…”

“Keep going.” There was an odd tone in the dispatcher’s voice, a strange sort of tension. “Tell me about the weather.”

Maia noted the drop into the informal with vague alarm. “It’s cloudy, mer,” he said uncomfortably, “and cold.” The cold was seeping through the windowpanes like icy breath, raising goosebumps on Maia’s skin. “It looks like it might snow, soon--the clouds are very—” He stopped, hearing a rustle of fabric behind him. “Mer?”

_ “Keep speaking.”  _ The edge in Nathar’s voice was sharper now, almost desperate in a way. “ _ Do not _ turn around.” 

Unnerved, Maia kept his gaze fixed on the window, trying to make sense of what he could see reflected there. He could just make out Mer Nathar’s body moving towards him, his arm moving almost jerkily, as if—

With a cry of revulsion, Maia turned--but Nathar lunged forward and pushed him bodily against the glass.  _ “Keep speaking,”  _ he growled. 

“Let us go.” Maia’s voice was not loud enough--something was suppressing it, some old fear or shame he thought he’d conquered. “ _ Please _ , mer, let me—”

Nathar slumped heavily against him. His bony arms pinned Maia’s shoulders to the window, and his legs framed Maia’s thighs, holding him in place. Before Maia could protest again, the dispatcher pushed up his jacket and then his shirt, holding them above Maia’s shoulder blades and leaving his back bare to the chilly air.

Maia shuddered. “Get off,” he said, in a low, horrified voice he’d never heard himself use before.  _ “Get off. _ ”

His mind flashed back to that alleyway, and what the other runners had shown him.  _ Defense.  _ He was pinned, but if he slammed his head back he’d catch Mer Nathar a good blow in the face…

_ And then, _ he realized, cringing away as his employer ground his member across Maia’s buttocks,  _ then he’ll sack thee, and thou’lt be homeless again, just like before.  _ He pressed himself against the glass, nauseated by the rubbing of Nathar’s hot bare member across his back, by the little grunts of pleasure the dispatcher was loosing in his ears. This--this was hell, surely--how had he come from a life where no one touched him except to hurt him, and ended up…

_ I have money now _ , he thought suddenly, wincing as Nathar pushed the head of his manhood against the seam of his trousers, right between his buttocks.  _ I’d get farther this time. Maybe far enough to find another job… _

_ Or maybe _ , his subconscious hissed, as Maia watched Nathar’s breath fog up the glass right by his face,  _ thou’lt lose it all again, and end up begging on the streets. Likely thou'lt end up selling thyself anyway to stay free--and what’s the difference between that and this? _

A part of Maia that sounded rather like Osu remarked that prostitution would likely pay a little more.

Nathar pulled at his hair, as if enraged by Maia’s inattention.  _ “What dost thou see?”  _ he hissed, shoving his cockstand against Maia’s arse.

Maia pressed his cheek against the glass. “There’s a cart,” he said, gritting his teeth, “loaded with sacks of meal. They’re carrying the sacks into the bakery.” The hot, obscene mass rutting against his back was like a devil thing with its own mind. It twitched as Maia tried to move away, and throbbed when it was pressed against his skin. “Six or seven men unloading, and the baker—”

Nathar  _ grunted _ . His hands clenched on Maia’s arms, and his cock shuddered against Maia’s back. A flood of wet warmth spurted across Maia’s skin.

For a second, there was only the sound of Nathar’s harsh breathing, and the fleshy slap as he shook his member once more and let it drop. His head fell to the window beside Maia’s face, the heat of his breath against Maia’s cheek growing thicker and damper by the second.

The smell of sex was so strong that Maia wanted to vomit. And the wet trail running down his back, pressed between their bodies now, like… 

“We’ll tell.” His own words shocked him when they emerged. He’d thought he had no words to say. “We’ll tell Mer Breva what you do here, and—”

Nathar barked a laugh, and shoved off of him, pushing Maia once more against the icy window. The trail of slime slipped down Maia’s back, warm and slick. He gritted his teeth and clenched his fists, trying to keep his gorge down. 

“ _ Tell _ , wilt thou?” the dispatcher said, still laughing. “That penniless son of a roadside widow? What, exactly, dost think Shalis Breva can do for thee?  _ Would  _ do for thee? We’ve not heard a word from him since he dumped thee on our hands over a month ago. He’s forgotten thee, Tanazh--why would he care to hear thy baseless stories?”

Maia stared at him. The dispatcher’s sex-flushed face was triumphant--as Setheris’ face had been, on that last night when Maia had realized that nothing would ever change.  _ He’s done this before,  _ Maia remembered. He’d known it, but hadn’t grasped the implication of such a predator keeping his position for so long.  _ He’s done it before, and people have told on him, and nothing has happened. He knows from experience that he’ll get away with it. _

“Now get out of our sight, thou little whore,” the dispatcher said, tucking himself in as he walked languidly back to his desk. “We’ve work to do.”

For a moment longer, Maia stared listlessly at his attacker. Nathar looked back, fearless, challenging. Gingerly, Maia pulled his shirt down over the mess on his back and let his jacket fall to cover it. He could feel the trail trickling, cold already, into the waistband of his trousers. He hoped against hope they wouldn’t be stained, for he really couldn't afford to replace them. He thought he heard Nathar snicker at his efforts to cover himself, but he resolutely did not look at the man even once as he made his way from the office.

Upstairs, he hung up his jacket--which, fortunately, had been protected by the shirt--and used the soiled shirt to wipe the mess from his skin. He wanted to burn it, then, but that would be folly--shirts cost money, too. Instead, he used water from the ewers and a clean white towel to scrape away the worst of the mess, and then buried the shirt and towel as deep in the washbasket as he could. 

The room was empty, luckily, all the others being at lunch, and Maia stripped naked and scrubbed himself a long time with towels, brown soap, and cold water. He longed for a bathtub, but the time and expense of going to the public baths weren’t to be thought of now. At last, drying off, Maia put on clean clothes and sat numbly on his bed to process what had happened.

He hadn’t come to any conclusion when, a few minutes later, the door opened. “Here, Nel!” said Parva brightly. “I’ve found a steppe-needle for thee at last. What—” He stopped, arm outstretched, when he saw Maia’s face. “What’s happened?” he said, much more soberly.

Maia took the steppe-needle in his hand. It lay in a slim blue sheath, the bronze arrowhead bright against the dyed leather. He drew it out, a sharp, sturdy spike the length of his hand, and held it up to the light. “I don’t suppose,” he said unsteadily, “that I could get away with using this against our employer.”

Parva sank to the opposite bed and stared soberly at Maia. “No,” he said, shaking his head sadly. “I don’t believe thou couldst.”

Maia nodded. This predicament, he felt, was familiar. He slid the arrowhead back into its sheath, put it under his pillow, and lay down to sleep until night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Detailed warnings:
> 
> First section (Maia POV): Racially charged sexually harassment, sexual assault, attempted rape, and a violent beatdown of the would-be rapist. 
> 
> Third section (Maia POV): This is the nasty one. : ( HARDCORE sexual harassment, including racially charged sexual harassment. Two sexual assaults; one "minor" (i.e. comparatively brief, with no skin-to-skin contact) and one major (nothing... penetrative... but it's prolonged and there are fluids involved.) 
> 
> I am very sorry to put our boy through this. I do not intend for sexual violence to be a major theme in this story, but it is canonically part of a courier's life, and so it's got to be dealt with. : (
> 
> P.S. I was wrong about some surname conventions in the second chapter (still not 100% sure I have it right...), and realized I'd described Aano wrong in chapter four, so am making a couple of minor corrections. Also was reminded that Kevo actually has TWO "skinny daughters," so let's assume either there's an older daughter who's since left, or a younger daughter who hasn't started working yet. *awkward finger guns*
> 
> P.P.S. My headcanon is that Maia is KNOCKOUT GORGEOUS, but has no idea because of the way people have treated him. I picture him as looking like a slimmer, more delicate version of Han Hyun-Min: https://www.instagram.com/h_h_m0519/ Re: Telimezh: I have no idea what he looks like, so I made something up. Does anyone have a good first name for him??
> 
> May 25, 2020. Things are starting to open up here, for better or for worse. I hope you're all doing okay where you are. Stay safe!!!<3

**Author's Note:**

> Just a heads-up: I am using [this](https://tge-fate.fandom.com/wiki/Geography_of_Ethuveraz?file=Ethuveraz.jpg) incredibly useful map, and relying on the information in the [Wiki](https://the-goblin-emperor.fandom.com/wiki/Category:Location), but... I'm taking some liberties. It says in the book that it takes "most of a week" to get from Edonomee to the Court by land, but that doesn't seem like a big enough space to have its own emperor or need airships. So I will be fudging. Please excuse. :D


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